


Apple Stories

by LivaWilborg



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Apple of Eden, Assassin's Creed II, Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:58:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6057430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This story picks up after the events of "The Painter and the Warlord" but can easily be read without it.) </p><p>Cesare captures Monteriggioni and the Apple. Now he needs a puzzle-solver to find out what the Apple can actually do. Leonardo is the obvious candidate for the job, but he is not too happy about being dragged there in chains...<br/>Steamy stuff from chapter 3 onwards!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Language of Strength

Sixteen small towns and two cities have fallen this summer. I have nothing to complain about, except that I don't have him to share it with. And then there is the Apple...

The world was in fresh bloom when I saw him ride away from the camp. I've missed him. Missed everything he has to offer me. It has been four months since we parted. And now I need his help. The Apple is a mystery and Leonardo is a solver of puzzles. If anyone can unlock the Apple’s secrets, it’s him.

I know he will probably have mixed feelings about the fall of Monteriggioni. There is nothing I can do about that. The Apple is better used in my hands than in the hands of a criminal. And there was no deceit involved in taking the city. Although I had spies there, they were not instrumental in the capture. Only skill and tactics were used. The city was captured in honest combat and the defenders slinked away to whatever darkness they crawled out from originally.

I beat the assassin! I beat him honourably by anyone's standards. Leonardo will understand. But I am not a fool. I still don't fully know what his relationship with the assassin is. He might not wish to see things clearly.

The people I sent were instructed to escort Leonardo to me with all possible courtesy; but also told that he did not have the option of declining my invitation. He wouldn't, though. We parted as friends; he has no reason to refuse.

I look forward to seeing him. My patience is wearing thin.

 

I-O-I

 

I hesitate a moment before opening the door. The afternoon sun streaming in from the window behind me is warm on my back. There is a kind of excitement in my mind, happiness a seeing him again, but also a sort of anxiousness I rarely experience. I don't quite know what to expect from him. Not that I ever did...

He has been waiting for a while. I was told that he arrived here about an hour ago, while I was meeting with the leaders of the troops, trying to decide where to go next or whether to end the campaign for the year. It's early September and autumn is on its way, any larger sieges would soon be costly depending on the weather but a few minor towns would still be within reach before the campaigning season ends.

There is so much left to subjugate!  But this year my lust for conquest has been at odds with my wish to keep Leonardo close. They are irksomely incompatible, those two desires. Annoyed at my own hesitation, I enter the office.

There is a chill in the air. The sun caresses the other side of the keep and afternoon shadows cling to the corners. There is a plate of refreshments set out on the large table, untouched, and he is leaning against the wall by an open window, looking out at the afternoon landscape beyond the town, his arms crossed. The way he slumps against the stones indicates exhaustion.

His clothes are dirty.

I've never seen that happen before, he's normally almost girlishly careful about his appearance. He slowly turns his head to look at me. I stare, momentarily unable to process what I'm seeing. His eyebrow is cracked and there is still a dark shadow from the bruise under his eye. His lip is split. There is dried blood down the front of his shirt. Buttons torn from his sleeveless doublet. At least a week's worth of stubble on his chin. Wounds around his wrists, cuts on his arms, bruises, bloodied rips in his clothes.

"What the hell is this!" I exclaim angrily. "Get me the people who brought him here, immediately!" I snap at the attendant who followed me into the room.

Leonardo holds up a hand: "I'd be thankful, Your Grace, if I didn't have to see them again." he says softly, measuring his words to protect the wound on his lip.

"Leonardo... What happened!" I ask.

He gives a short, mirthless laugh and just looks at me, his temper impossible to read: "Perhaps I could request a private conversation with you, Your Grace?" he says evenly, his gaze going to the guards in the room and the servants in the corners.

I dismiss them with a wave of my hand and the room falls silent when we are alone. His gaze wanders back to the landscape as I approach him. He seems thinner than the last time. He has a summer tan and freckles on his nose but he is pale and haggard underneath.

"Who did this?" I ask when I'm so close to him that I could reach out and touch him.

"I'm used to travelling between Milano and Venezia, Milano and Firenze, Milano and Monteriggioni... I know the landscapes, the roads, the distances." he says, still staring at the forested hills in the horizon. "But since I made most of the journey drugged, to keep me from escaping a third time, I don't know how far we travelled. I don’t even know what day it is." He finally meets my eyes. I see anger in him, a cool and steady sort of anger.

"Where am I, Cesare?" he finally asks. "And why?"

"Drugged?" I ask.

"You are asking questions instead of answering them! Why am I here?" he demands, his voice taut like a drawn bowstring.

"You are here at my invitation. Because your skills are needed." I tell him sharply. I'm not accustomed to anyone using that tone with me, and certainly not a simple painter, but I try to control the anger that flares in my chest. "Now tell me why you are hurt!"

"No!" he shakes his head: "No, this is not an invitation. Your people did this to me when I tried to decline. You can refuse invitations and that was evidently not an option in this case."

"My people did this?" I don't try to hide the surprise I feel at this confirmation. They will most certainly pay for this! Everything considered this was not what I had in mind.

Leonardo takes a step closer so that we are almost nose to nose and stares at me, judging me, weighing me, evaluating me.

"I never authorised them to hurt you. Never! I told them to keep you safe on the journey." Keeping my voice even is a challenge; my anger has to be kept under the surface or I might lose him.

"When they came to my door I was packing." he tells me. "Because I had just heard about Monteriggioni and I had to-" he stops himself midsentence. "I used to live there. It used to be my home."

"It was inevitable." I say and Leonardo lowers his eyes.

"Inevitable?" he asks and gently reaches out to put his hands on my chest. He stands like that for a little while before he finally asks: "Did you kill him?"

"Did I kill who?" I ask. I want to hear him speak the assassin's name. Suddenly the hands on my chest seize my doublet. My instinctive reaction is to grab for the knife in my belt as he swiftly and unexpectedly forces me backwards, forces me into a stumbling run to keep my footing; slams me painfully against the wall.

"Did you kill him!" he roars at me in fury and I cannot help but laugh even though my head hurts from the impact. I have never seen him like this. The exhaustion is gone. The intellect. The shyness. He _does_ speak my language after all.

The door is forcefully torn open; Micheletto is there, all weapons and violent intent. He has such a lovely instinct for protecting me. I hold up a hand to stop him and out of the corner of my eye I see him hesitate in the doorway. Leonardo doesn't even notice him, just slams me against the wall again: "Is he dead!" he yells. I do not try to break his hold on me. I could. But I want to see his rage. The real Leonardo. The man under the gentleness. His eyes are blue flame as we lock gazes.

"I killed an Auditore." I tell him evenly. "He died on his knees before me. But defiant and without fear. He died well."

Leonardo's eyes narrow as he searches my face.

"But no. It wasn't... Ezio." I tell him, smiling. "Though whether he died trying to escape or manage to crawl away I cannot say."

He looks away. The rage is suddenly spent; the tiredness is back and his hands shakily relax their grip. I let go of the dagger and wave Micheletto out.

We stand close together. I want to touch him, but I will have to be satisfied with his hands resting on my chest for now.

"What about Claudia and Maria?" he asks softly. The wound on his lip has opened and a small trickle of blood runs down his chin.

"I have no idea." I tell him. "I never bothered learning that much about the Murderer. He is my father's problem, after all, not mine."

"His sister. His mother. They lived there. Are they dead?" Leonardo asks.

"Not by my hand. I never saw them; that I know of, at least. ...The sister managed the estate, isn't that right?" I ask calmly: "A pity I didn't get to see her. I've heard she's quite a beautiful woman."

The look he sends me is sharp but then he draws a deep breath and slowly runs his hands down my chest, straightening my ruffled clothes. Then he backs away and takes a seat by the table, leans back in the chair and closes his eyes for a moment. I move close to him and brush the blood off his lip with the tips of my fingers. He opens his eyes, but doesn't move away. I sit down next to him.

"What now?" he finally asks. "Am I a prisoner?"

I laugh: "Of course not."

"Wonderful..." he comments and slowly gets to his feet, walks towards the door. I find that I really like this game. It's a new and interesting dimension to him. There is no doubt in my mind that he will stagger out of the keep as he is, and foolishly brave whatever dangers he might encounter on his way, just to keep his pride.

I unhook the pouch from my belt and put it on the table. As always, losing contact with the Apple leaves a sort of hollow in my mind. "Leonardo." I say softly as his hand comes to rest on the door handle. His shoulders slump visibly and he stands still for a few moments before turning.

I open the pouch and push the apple across the table as far as I can reach. The warm metal seems to caress my fingers as I touch it and letting go of it is a battle as always; but I leave it sitting on the tabletop and lean back in the chair.

His gaze is fixed at the thing for a long while; then flickers to me and back again.

"I need your help." I tell him. "And however much you demand in payment for your services, I will give it to you. Whatever materials you might need for the work will be yours. You need only ask."

I watch as the battle of pride versus curiosity rages openly in his features and I cannot prevent a smile from curling my lips. Finally he forces his gaze away from the magnificent golden sphere.

"I'll assume that the assassin didn't let you play with his toys?"  I ask and my body quickens as Leonardo licks his wounded lip quickly, obviously struggling to keep his eyes on me.

I go to him, place myself between the Apple and him. My hand caresses his neck before I can stop myself and it is gratifying to have his full attention.

"You've had a horrendous journey. I apologise, this was never meant to happen." I tell him and feel him relax a little under the touch of my fingers. "And you don't have to make any decisions now. Rest, eat, take a warm bath. And please, let my physician have a look at you. We can talk about everything when you are feeling better."

He closes his eyes and for a short, mad moment I'm convinced he has fallen asleep where he stands.

He finally sighs and lifts his tired gaze: "Fine." he says. "My options are limited."

I snatch up the Apple before I call for the servants; make certain he is well provided for in every way. But as I walk to the training grounds with Micheletto afterwards, a tiny part of me cannot help but wonder if turning the Apple over to Leonardo is wise. If his feelings for the Murderer are too strong, he might think to betray me.

If just a small part of him understands the language of strength after all, I might have misjudged him. And I find that I enjoy this phase of the game even more than the last...

 

 

 


	2. Move and Countermove

I’m smiling to myself as I make my way from the prison cells in the basement of the keep to my private chambers. I feel invigorated by the morning's exercise. I took my time about it and feel fairly certain I have the whole story about Leonardo's journey. I have to find some water, though. The cloth I wiped my hands with couldn't remove the bloody stickiness. I should probably wash my face as well.

I was informed that Leonardo was up and I hope he is well enough to have lunch with me.

According to the two prisoners, Leonardo tricked the leader into shooting the third man in the group. I'd like to hear Leonardo's version of the events. I grin to myself as I clean the blood off. If it's true, I cannot imagine that he did it intentionally. Then again, people are generally quite willing to compromise their principles when their lives are threatened.

I should like to do that; put him in mortal danger and observe. But he would know and never forgive me. It must remain a fantasy. Looking into his eyes as he slammed me into the wall yesterday, I saw a new side of him. Not just anger but the potential to act on it. It excites me. But to my surprise it also makes me long for his softness.

 

I-O-I

 

When he enters the room he looks almost like himself. The stubble is gone, he is clean, and although the borrowed clothes are a bit too wide for his lean frame he is well dressed again. His eyes are clear, calm; the feverish rage of yesterday seems to have burned itself out.

He gives me a very slight bow before sitting down. It's just him and me. The servants have brought the food and been dismissed. When I gesture with the wine he nods and holds out his glass, almost smiling. Everything is like the winter we spent together. Except this time he is not in my service yet. I briefly wonder what I will do if he declines but I push the thought away.

"You are better?" I ask.

"I'm as good as I can be under the circumstances." he comments as he reaches for the food. "I'm wondering, though..." he continues evenly: "What is it you think I can do for you? Why me? What are you hoping to gain from the Apple that you cannot do yourself?"

"That's a lot of questions." I smile at him.

"All of them reasonable." he notes calmly.

“Reasonable for someone I know I can entrust with specialised knowledge because he's in my pay and bound by an oath of loyalty, yes. Right now, you are just a guest."

It's true, of course, but also meant as a joke, and when he laughs it makes me happy. The smile-lines by his eyes chase the last shadow from the bruise away and make his face look so alive. "That's fair. I'll enjoy your hospitality as a guest for the rest of the day then, Your Grace."

"I'll endeavour to be a good host." I tell him. "I think I know how to entertain you. I have something to engage your mind when we are done here."

"That sounds ominously interesting..." he says. "So, Your Grace, have you had time to read any interesting books this summer?"

"But of course. Considering my former occupation in the Church, I always keep up on my Bible studies." I tell him as we start eating, trying hard not to laugh.

"Naturally! You must miss your true vocation terribly."

"Was it really worth it to leave the Church, I've gained so little?" I muse mockingly.

Leonardo smiles: "Even though I'm not happy about the circumstances of my being here, it's... not completely disagreeable to see you again." he says.

I shrug dismissively: "It isn't thoroughly offensive to have you here. Where were you going?"

He looks at me questioningly: "Going?"

"You told me that you were packing when my people showed up and unfortunately chose to interpret their orders rather freely."

"Ah..." He nods and puts the bread he has been holding down; looks at me. "I have no idea." he says. "I thought I would perhaps go to Monteriggioni, or what was left of it, and see if I could find anyone there who could tell me if he was still alive. Tell me what happened." He looks at me for a while, searching my face for a reaction. "I had no plan. I just had to do something."

"Believe me, I wish you weren't caught in the middle of this." I say. I'm not certain if he is being completely truthful about his intended itinerary. Perhaps he would know where to find the assassin, know how their cult works enough to know of their emergency procedures? I've assumed he would be a terrible liar. But I've also assumed that he couldn't slam me against a wall in fury.

He narrows his eyes as he looks at me, obviously trying to figure out what I'm thinking; then he smiles, shakes his head: "I don't know where he is." he says softly. "But I hope he is safe with his family."

I push the plate away and lean in over the table: "You have to understand my view on this." I say. "Auditore stole the Apple from my father and humiliated him. He began this by taking something that wasn't his. But I don't care about him any further. If he stays out of the game from now on, I will not harm him."

"It's hardly a game." Leonardo says.

"You are wrong. That's all it is and I'll prove it by making the next move." I can't help but smile. This will be interesting. We have scarcely eaten anything but I stand up, gesture for him to come with me. Puzzled and a little wary, he follows. It's a short walk down to the courtyard of the inner keep. I open the door, and as we step outside I observe him intently. The sky is overcast, threatening rain. An appropriate setting.

I see Leonardo grow pale, struggle to keep his calm at the sight before him. The men who brought him here, both kneeling, bound, their heads resting on sturdy blocks of wood. It seems I beat one of them a little too much for sport earlier, he seems to have more or less collapsed at the block. The other is looking in our direction and I can see in his eyes that he is certain of death. He is calm. Has given up. His stare is empty, even as his breath is fast and frantic.

Micheletto is there, in the shadows, staring at the condemned, a small, hungry smile on his lips.

The two soldiers I personally paid to act as executioners raise their axes high, ready for my signal. I instructed them not to sharpen their weapons. I want the show to be interesting in case Leonardo surprises me. The feeling in the courtyard is tense and thick, exactly the mood I adore at executions, even in spite of there being no crowd. I made sure to keep the courtyard closed. Only a few guards, the condemned and the executioners. The hush, the deadly expectation. It lingers deliciously in the air.

Leonardo turns away from the spectacle and looks at me. His eyes seem much darker than usual.

"You see the game now? This was my move. Now it's your turn." I tell him calmly.

It takes a moment for him to answer. An interesting happening; him not knowing how to respond...

"They are people. Not game pieces." he finally says, his voice low, intended only for me.

"At the moment you are incorrect."

"And why is that, Your Grace?"

"I'm extremely unhappy about what they did to you. I want them punished. But I will abide by your decision concerning their fate." I say and watch the glorious display of emotions in his features.

Leonardo turns his head and looks at the men who can expect death any moment. I want to remind him of the pain they caused him, I want him to react. I can't take my eyes off him. If ever he had a reason to want someone dead, I expect this is it. I would love to see the gentle facade crumble once more. I want to see him crave retribution, lust for someone's death. I want to be able to share that with him.

He stares at the men for what seems to me half an eternity. "Then let them go." he finally says and I'm startled to find a wave of relief washing over me. I can still trust him. I still know him. I still want him.

I nod my head: "If that is your wish, I'll let them live." I tell him. "But would you still spare them if I told you that I would send them off to hunt the assassin? One of them might be the one to take his life."

He looks at me, suddenly calm: "I thought you wouldn't hunt him if he stayed out of the game."

"Do you believe he will?" I ask him.

"Let them go." he says, waiting, looking at me expectantly.

"I'll be merciful." I call out, and the would-be executioners lower their axes. "Get them to their garrison. They have duties to attend to."

The soldiers step in, haul the men to their feet, cut the ropes that bind them, drag them off. One is still senseless, the other seems mostly confused, looking around him comically as he is led away, dragging his feet.

My eyes wander to Micheletto across the courtyard. He is looking in my direction. There is a strange expression on his face, something I'm not familiar with even though I've known him for years. It's not disgust exactly, not hatred or jealousy, but something strangely in between. How dare he! Suddenly it dawns on me that he is looking at Leonardo next to me, and my anger melts away as quickly as it flared. This is amusing. I cannot resist turning my back on Micheletto, pretending not to have noticed his petty display, and put a hand on Leonardo's arm. Gently. He is warm to the touch.

"You are kinder than I am." I tell him.

He nods: "That's a word for it." he says quietly. "I think I understand the game."

"Really?" I laugh.

"It's my move now." he says and turns to leave. I follow him back up the stairs. We don’t speak until we are back at our lunch. I'm still hungry, though Leonardo is obviously not, picking at the food with his knife absentmindedly.

"Let's talk about the terms of my employment." he finally says, composed, businesslike.

I smile: "I thought you were going to be my guest and nothing else?"

"The diversions you set for your guests unnerve me. I'd rather be in your service." he states.

I can't help but laugh at this. He knows I didn't mean to punish my people as a kind gesture to him and there is freedom in that; not having to pretend too much. "Fine. What are you terms?"

"First I need to know exactly what you hope I can accomplish. I'm not even certain I'm the right man for the job."

"The Apple is a weapon." I say. "Or so I'm told. We know that it can be utilised to dull men's minds, but this is unambitious. I don't want to rule thousands of drooling idiots unless I absolutely have to. I want people to unite under solid, ordered laws and to reject anarchy and lawlessness because it's the best thing to do. What I want from the Apple-" I stop myself at the look in his eyes. "What!" I demand.

"Nothing, Your Grace. It's just a... remarkable conflict where the desired end result is the same for both combatants. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You are grievously mistaken! They want anarchy. We want order. They want people to choose crime as a valid option. We want people to choose a life of decent compliance with their society. The assassins are wrong. We are right."

"And I am neutral, it seems..." he says. There is a troubled look in his eyes and he quickly turns his attention to the cup in front of him, twirling it between his fingers.

"I wish you would see the good of the side I represent." I tell him earnestly. If only he would, I could keep him.

He gives me a sharp glance and shakes his head: "Both sides indiscriminately kill members of the people whose best interests they claim to serve. I will have no more to do with that than I have to." he says with finality. Before I can interject anything he continues: "You say the Apple is more than a weapon. Why don't you try to discover it yourself?"

"I tried." I say, letting him change the subject for now. "I sat with it for a few moments, and the things it showed me were too... confusing. There is also the matter of time, and mine is best spent with my attention elsewhere. You, on the other hand, you break impossible codes for fun. You are perhaps the most imaginative man alive and you can be trusted when you give your word. You are the only one I will turn the Apple over to." 

He seems unable to control a small satisfied smirk: "Are you hoping to lower my wages with flattery, Your Grace?" he asks.

"Perhaps after I hear your terms." I tell him smilingly.

 "You'll pay me three times what you paid me last winter." he says and I laugh loudly. He is completely unabashed, though, smiling at me: "First part is my regular wage, second part is an apology for dragging me here against my will and third part is compensation for the money, and reputation, I'm losing in commissions I cannot finish."

"Even you aren't worth that much." I state, lying. I enjoy this.

"Yes I am." he simply answers, smiling calmly.

"I will double your pay from last winter and make it known that you are a prisoner. I'll make certain your patrons are made aware of it. Then you will not lose any reputation."

"No!" he says promptly. "I will not be a prisoner again, not even for make-believe."

"How characteristically principled of you."

"And I'm not even done... I must know what I'm employed to do, so that I may know when I'm done with the task. When I can go home."

"That would be difficult to say since I don't know what you might find." I tell him.

"Perhaps you would prefer to simply set a time limit? And I will do what I can within that time."

"If I am going to pay you triple you will stay with me for a year!" I state and see in his face that this time frame startles him. I'm perfectly willing to pay him what he asks for, but I will certainly keep him so that he has ample time to research the damned sphere. And having him close, having him within reach for a year where my father cannot interject is a thrilling prospect.

"A year? But if I am to research the Apple, I cannot follow you on campaign when the summer comes. Nor do I wish to."

I hold up my hands: "I will not force you."

"Fine. One year, after which you will let me go peacefully." he says, measuring me with his gaze again as he continues: "And in addition to my pay, I want you to swear that for as long as I remain in your service, you will not pursue Ezio Auditore. You will not send anyone out to search for him, hurt him in any way or cause anyone else to do so."

I stare at him. That is a bold demand to make. He meets my harsh stare with composure.

"Those are ruthless terms. Do you want me to put my own life in danger! If the criminal did survive, there is every reason to expect that he wants me dead very badly." I snap at him angrily.

"I understand. And insist." he says. "Should he come here to seek you that would be different. But I will not aid you if I know you are hunting him."

"You damned beast of a painter!" I get up; place myself behind him, my hands on the table on either side of him. He is motionless, doesn't turn his head to look at me although we are so close my breath touches his ear. Now I remember exactly how infuriating his calm can be.

"Why the hell am I not having you imprisoned and tortured until you work for me for free and tell me everything I want to know about your precious assassin?" I sneer him angrily.

"Because then we would both lose the game. And it would be an uninspired move, Your Grace." he tells me and finally turns his head enough for our cheeks to touch. His skin is warm. Why do I let him escape the most horrendous acts of insolence completely unpunished? I slit my own brother's throat and had his worthless carcass tossed in the Tiber and for some reason I cannot bring myself to harm a peasant-born painter? He is not intimidated by me.

“Fine. I accept your terms.” I finally tell him. “And you are mine for a year.”

“Well played.” he smiles and inclines his head a little so that his lips brush my cheek briefly. “When do I begin?” he asks softly.

“Tomorrow morning.” I tell him, retreating. “You are still my guest for the rest of the day.”

“In that case I think I will lock myself in my room for the rest of the day before you offer me a fresh diversion.” he says, getting up. “Perhaps I will see you later, Your Grace.”


	3. The Battle of the Notebook

Night has fallen and the guards have been instructed to stay vigilant. I don't expect the assassin to have either the brains or the willpower to come here. But caution breeds security.

I've been wondering all afternoon why I let him go after lunch. Allowed him to excuse himself from my company. But it would have been a breach of the rules between us to demand more of him than he was willing to give after what I put him through in the courtyard.

I knock quickly and open the door. Leonardo is sitting on the bed, reading, resting against a mass of pillows. His feet are bare, his pants rolled up to his knees and his shirt hangs loose around him. On the bedside table are two cups.

He doesn't look up as I enter, but reaches out to pour wine into the second cup before turning his gaze to acknowledge me, his almost-smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

"People usually rise when I enter the room." I tell him.

"People also wait at the door after knocking. Ordinary mortals, that is." he responds: "Imagine all the situations you could have caught me in, Your Grace."

I promptly do; my imagination painting vivid pictures of his nakedness and I forcefully try to get my thoughts under control. I need to touch him, to dispel his reservations. His caution. His memory of how he got here.

I go to stand at the side of the bed, take the cup he offers me. I sit, putting the cloth-wrapped bundle I'm carrying down on the mattress between us: "Where did you get that?" I ask, nodding at the book he holds.

"The library. Downstairs."

"I didn't know there was one."

"That must be an occupational hazard of taking over other people's homes, Your Grace." he comments and puts the book away, looks at the bundle on the bed. I hand it to him and sip my wine as he unwraps it.  He smiles warmly when he holds the notebook in his hands. It’s handsomely bound in green leather with bronze edges and the paper is thick and silky. A stylus sits in a little pocket at the edge of the binding under the clasp. I had it made for him early this summer; I knew I would see him again.

He runs his fingertips over the paper, almost lovingly. “You cannot imagine how much I’ve needed this.” he says, picking up the stylus.

"No pictures of me sleeping this time, though!" I tell him, only half joking. "Agree to that and I'll make sure you don't run out of drawing supplies during the next year."

He laughs: "Fine. Then sit still for a moment. You are hard to capture when you’re awake."

I put the cup down: "Certainly not. You are not sketching anything tonight."

"How much are you willing to bet on that?" he asks, the pen already travelling across the paper in precise strokes while his smiling attention travels between the notebook in his hands and me.

"I'm willing to bet my army and my honour!" I state and quickly grab for the notebook.

He holds the book up, out of my reach, looking at me expectantly. I push his chest. He falls down on the bed with a surprised exclamation. Without delay I try to take the book from him but he quickly squirms out of my grip, his bare foot on my thigh, shoving me away. I grab his legs, pull him closer, reach for the book anew but he suddenly moves, his legs wrapped against my chest, to throw me down on the bed with him on top of me.

It was a swift and decisive move and I find myself impressed; torn between giving him this victory to keep him straddling me like this and avenging myself. His smug laughter and the way he opens his notebook as his eyes study my face decides for me. Grinning, I throw him off. 

None of us try to hurt the other in earnest but the mock fight that follows is intense enough that I experience how much stronger he is than he looks. He seems pained though, when I touch his left side, trying to move to protect it. I'd exploit that without mercy in a real opponent.

When I finally have him pinned down under me on the bed, the notebook thrown to the floor, he suddenly lies completely still, his eyes smiling at me. Silently waiting. He is my ally again and having him this close is a rush of delight in my body and my mind.

His fingers slowly caress the back of my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine. We lie like this, looking at each other, our lips almost touching, until my ache for him becomes almost painful.

When our lips finally meet the contact is so soft it's hardly a touch. He sighs in pleasure and his hand on the back of my neck presses me closer and I'm lost in the heat of the kiss, his arms around me. He rolls towards me, pushing me until we're lying on our sides, holding each other. It suddenly dawns on me, through the rush in my body, that not all his sounds are pleasure-sounds, there is a pained something under his eagerness not to let go of me.

I finally push him back a little; though ending the kiss is a loss. He reads the question in my eyes. Tiny dark spots have appeared in the fabric of his shirt along his side; blood. He stops my hand reaching out to pull his shirt off.

"No more threats! No more death!" he tells me.

"I never threaten..." I tell him. I bat his hand away and pull his shirt over his head.

All the way down his side are long lacerations against the backdrop of a wine-dark bruise across his ribs. It looks as though he took a heavy fall, sliding over rocky ground, followed by a solid beating. Some of the wounds have opened a little in our exercise and small bubbles of blood dot the torn landscape of his body. I find my hand gently reaching out, my fingertips running over his skin at the edge of the wounds. They are healing but it will take time.

He is lucky to be alive. The first man I ever saw killed was a servant in my father's house. I was five years old, I think. It's an odd memory to revisit. My father hit the man with a heavy stick across the ribs, breaking bones. I watched as the man struggled on the floor for hours, spitting blood in brutal agony, before choking to death. I remember how the bloodstain grew and grew, ruining the carpet; and my father's hand on my shoulder as we watched him die together.

Leonardo doesn't carry a grudge very well, if he truly wants me to stay my anger against those who did this to him. But I only win from this attitude of his.  

He is regarding me in a calculating manner; as though he's trying to read my thoughts in my eyes.

"Be calm." I whisper to him. I stop his scrutiny with a fresh kiss that quickly turns to laughter when I can't place my hand on him without having to worry about the wounds. He grins and his fingers nimbly undo the clasps of my doublet; the string holding my shirt collar closed.  I settle for an arm under his head and a hand between his legs while he opens my belt, his breath quick.

We fumble with each other's clothes while trying not to end the kiss. I need him naked. I need to see him. I need to touch his warm skin unhindered. We suddenly both break free of each other as per unspoken agreement and quickly undress.

Coming back to the embrace unfettered by fabric is as sweet as victory. Having his hands on me, curious, creative and unencumbered by prudish sensations, makes me forget his needs for a moment, lost in pleasure while he kisses my neck and chest. I don't know how to fuck him without hurting him. I've been fantasising about having him since the day he left. It's almost too much. I stop his hot kisses; push him away so we are again lying on our sides.

We touch each other, our hands greedy. The taste of him, his fast breath hot against my skin, the golden reflections of the candlelight off his skin, his gasping moans when I stroke him...  I can't last like this very long. The tip of his tongue caresses my lips quickly. He presses closer for a biting kiss.  He bites when he is close and I give in to his warm touches and climax, breathlessly biting him back. He quickly follows and we desperately cling to each other.

I feel light, heavy, exhausted, invigorated, released. I don’t let go of him. We calm down slowly, sticky hands roaming caressingly over each other’s bodies. There is a small smear of blood on his chin from the wound on his lip and he smilingly closes his eyes when I kiss it away.

I have him for a year! A year to convince him to yield his perceived neutrality or at least align it with me. A year to explore his body and mind. I have him for a year.

He closes his eyes, his forehead resting against my chin. His hair tickles my nose and I reach out to brush it away, running my fingers through his curls. Waking breath becomes his sleep-breath, as soft against my skin as to be almost imperceptible. When we were together last winter he always seemed to avoid sleeping unless I did. As though he didn’t trust me enough.

Now he rests calmly with an arm around me.

Just before sleep claims me, a thought pushes to the forefront; that it’s defiance he exhibits in falling asleep first, not trust. I have a year to change that.

 


	4. September - October - November

**September**

I allowed Leonardo to send a letter to his workshop and his patron to inform of his absence. I read them, of course, without his knowledge, before sending the messenger off. They were uncharacteristically laconic. I have no doubt I will hear from his patron about ...borrowing an artist of the court. Although I have a spy in the Duke's entourage, I am annoyingly uninformed about Leonardo's status there. In the end it doesn't matter. He cannot touch me, especially not with my French support.

Leonardo has been working for about a week now and I wish to inspect his progress. He has been avoiding my evening questions about his work with intimate distractions and although I have no complaints about that, I need to see what he plans to do with my artefact.

He chose his own workplace, a room at the top floor of the keep, away from prying eyes. I had a new lock installed and only he and I have a key.

 Although I was hardly secret about my entry into the room he seems not to notice me. He simply stares at the Apple in front of him on the desktop, lost in thought. I watch him. There is a stack of papers next to him on the desk but they are unpromisingly blank. I briefly wonder whether this is really work, or if he somehow intends to fool me; to only pretend to do his duty. It's almost as if he is having a staring contest with the sphere. I open the door again and slam it shut to get his attention. He jumps in his chair, a look of alarm in his features.

“...Still not knocking, I see.” he says.

“Have you learned anything?” I ask, ignoring his impudent comment.

“Well, I can read and write.” he says, serious for a second before a grin breaks through.

“...In the last week?” I add and take a seat next to him, leaning on the table and staring at the metallic orb with him. It has a knack for attracting your attention.

He rubs his eyes, looking suddenly tired. “A bad tree yields bad apples?” he asks and I smile.

“Have you considered actually... touching it?” I ask and my fingers interlock with his, holding his hand poised over the artefact.

He quickly moves back in his chair and twists his hand free: “I have. And I will. But I am trying to get a feeling for it. To figure out what I know about it. And think a little further than that.”

“I trust your methods.” I say. His services were remarkable last time and I have no reason to expect that this will be different. His attention travels back to the Apple and I watch him for a while, the faraway frown of concentration. It seems he has already forgotten me. I stand up, run my fingertips down the back of his neck and have his interest back. There is a promise for tonight in his gaze.

I wish to think of the Apple as a tool, not a competitor to his attention, although I know how childish this thought is when I have employed him to figure the tool out.

I will enjoy him tonight.

**October**

Leonardo is tentatively approaching the sphere. I find him on some days with his fingertips resting on the surface of the metal, so far away in his thoughts that I have to touch him to get his attention. When he is not working he seems restless. Distracted. It annoys me.

I find him in his study. Every time I enter it seems a few new things have been added. Today's new addition is a pair of smith's tongs and a bellows which lie on the floor at the narrow fireplace with a sturdy pair of foundry gloves.

His hand is resting on the apple. A confusing wealth of papers are scattered around the tabletop, all littered with his lopsided script. There are ink stains on his fingers. To my surprise he looks up as I enter the chamber, sighs and withdraws his hand from the apple. He is about to rub his eyes but notices the ink on his skin before he can smear it all over his face. He gives a laugh.

"What have you learned?" I ask.

"This piece of shit doesn't bounce..." he tells me.

I say nothing but my face apparently shows my lack of understanding. He picks the Apple up and in a quick, fluid motion he flings it at a wall. An angry shout leaves my lips, but the Apple doesn't even make a sound on impact with the stone. Ignoring normal laws of movement, it falls to the ground in a completely straight line and immediately lies still. I suck my breath in to berate Leonardo for his careless behaviour, but he simply points at the fallen artefact. I watch as it gently rolls a few feet towards me before coming to a stop.

"I guess it also has a build-in impulse towards finding a user." Leonardo says tonelessly. "Oh, and it seems predictably indestructible. It didn't even retain the heat after I pulled it out of the fire."

I pick the Apple up. Its return to me is almost endearing and the anger that flares in my chest seems in my mind to fuel something in the warm, ethereal sphere. The anger is pulsing through me and I turn and slam the artefact down on the table before him: "What the hell were you thinking! You could have destroyed it!" I shout at him, my fingers curled around the metal: "You are a madman! I did not authorise this!" I yell and he sends me a quick look before turning his full attention to the sphere under my fingers.

He puts his hand over mine: "Listen..." he says softly. "Does it talk to you?"

I look at the artefact. It seems to glow strangely and there is a whisper of possibility coursing through my mind that has been hiding itself, playing with my thoughts, ever since I picked the Apple up. I could easily use it. I could use it on him. I could make him stay with me. I could use it to gain whatever I wished. I could force the infuriating calm from his mind and make him fear me...

"What is it telling you?" Leonardo asks softly, rising from his chair, our eyes at level; his hand still resting over mine.

I look at him and a sudden revulsion for the Apple floods my mind. I remove my hand forcefully.

"I don't want to be given things." I tell him, the loathing loud in my voice: "I want to conquer!"

I step away from the table: "And when I tell you to study something it doesn't mean by fire and impact."

He quickly rolls the Apple into its bag, leave it on the table and goes to stand in front of me: "I expected that it reacts to emotions. And your anger is closer to the surface than mine is, Your Grace." he says.

"Don't ever include me in your experiments again!" I tell him hotly, though the anger is fading.

He looks at me with his frustratingly evaluating gaze. I wish I could keep the anger and not just the show of it. The appraisal turns into a smile in the corner of his mouth. I hate how he sees through me.

"Tell me what the Apple did." he says.

"It told me I could get whatever I wanted." I tell him and quickly grab him and push him down in a chair. He looks up at me. He knows he is going to pay for using me as a part of his experiment; and he likes it.

"But why would I want a coward's tool when I can just take what I want instead." I say as I undo my belt.

He says nothing but there is a feverish promise of pleasure in his eyes. His lips touches me, teases me, receives me; his hands on my hips, his tongue so hot. He is unbelievably good at this! I have to control him or he would make me come far too quickly. I savour the pleasurable pain of holding back as long as I possibly can, until I cannot endure it anymore.

When I'm done he lets me go without words and apparently not expecting anything in return even though his breath is quick and his hands are shaking. I grin as I buckle my belt again and he gives me a frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

I'm quite satisfied as I close the door behind me.

 

 

**November**

"...the Swiss units are happy on winter-pay and well encamped outside the city. The Roman units stationed within the walls consist mostly of craftsmen and they are capable of supporting themselves. I'd suggest keeping a close eye on Vitelli, though. His troops are getting rowdy. So is he." Micheletto gives me a serious stare. The sort he gives when he awaits an order.

I think for a moment as my gaze goes to the almost leafless forest horizon beyond the windows, tinted golden by the last rays of the setting sun. The moment a commander becomes unhappy he slacks the discipline and the soldiers under his command become bold and forget their place. Insurrections are born this way and I must be ever careful to keep my officers happy and severe in their punishments of disobedience. Especially during the winter months when the troops that have not been disbanded are bored and on half pay.

"No. No action yet." I finally say. "There are no immediate successors I can replace Vitelli with, so for now I will treat him like the dog he is. Keep him under observation and the moment you see him enforcing the discipline, reward him. That might encourage him to do it more often."

"Weigh him down with feisty whores?" Micheletto asks and empties his wine glass, his tone businesslike.

"Whores, nuns, donkeys, boys, whatever tickles his fancy..." I tell him.

"As you wish." he nods. "I will keep my eyes on him."

 When I look at Micheletto I sometimes wonder if he is dear to me or simply a means to an end. A tool. If what I feel for him is not the same affection I have for my favourite blade?

I was in my fifteenth year when I was sent off to the University of Pisa. It was a natural development, I suppose. I had been careless enough to enable my aunt to walk in on me while I was fucking my sister. My father berated me for my poor planning before sending me off. In Pisa I met Micheletto Corella and the first time I saw him kill I knew I had to gain his loyalty. The cool and calm way in which he acted out his cruel passions impressed me beyond measure.

I still enjoy watching him work and he has never wavered in his devotion to me. I happily turn control of the city over to him when I have to leave for Roma.

He is quite easy to read, though; I know his moods. The look in his face right now is the same as the one he wears when he is weighing the risk of an engagement, assessing a threat.

"What is it?" I ask: "Anything else I should worry about?"

He looks away for a second as though I have caught him doing something he shouldn't.

"Well?" I demand, half laughing at his odd reaction.

"There is something I... Something I would be disloyal not to point out to you." he says.

"Yes?" I ask, smiling, trying to put him at ease: "What is it?"

"Leonardo da Vinci." he simply says, leaving the name hanging in the air between us.

I finally laugh: "Are you asking if I am aware of his possible prior allegiance?"

"No. I'm asking if you're aware how dangerous he is." Micheletto says and finally has the courage to look at me.

"And why is that?" I ask, trying hard to remind myself that his main interest is my safety.

"He is intelligent. He knows the assassins. None of us can know where his real loyalties lie. And he becomes even more threatening when you consider that his main production isn't paintings but weapons."

"I'm aware of that since I hired him to make siege engines which helped wipe the nest of assassins out. I shot their leader with the pistol he made for me. What more can you possibly expect from the man!" I demand.

"I can expect him to come when you call him! Instead you had to drag him here in chains. There is every reason to beware that his loyalty might be hollow and that he is plotting against you. And just because he is likable-"

"Plotting against me!" I interrupt heatedly. Corella is practically calling me an idiot for hiring one of the most brilliant men alive. "How dare you question my judgement! He is working to-"

"He is playing with the most powerful weapon in existence because you put it into his hands!" Micheletto interjects loudly: "You should-"

My hand shoots out, wiping the glasses and the bottle to the floor as I get up: "What should I do, Corella! Do you give me orders now?"

Micheletto stands up too, anger twisting his features: "No!" he shouts: "I caution you because I'm your friend. And you should listen to me! Restrict his movements. Keep him under observation. Make certain-"

I close the gap between us, outraged at his boldness, kick the side of his knee. When he falls I pull him by the hair and press my dagger to his neck: "You do not give me orders!" I hiss at him.

He keeps still and there is fear in his eyes: "He might be trusted. I cannot know." Micheletto says pleadingly: "But why does he disappear into the village every other day?" he says, holding up his hands but doing nothing to protect himself: "Have you authorised him to send messages?"

"The village?" I ask.

Micheletto nods very carefully, casting a quick glance down at the steel to his throat. "It might be innocent. It might not. But do you know where he is?"

"I assume he is working..."

"He wasn't when I came here an hour ago."

I look at Micheletto. He has proven his loyalty often and I have no doubt he is sincere. I also know that my anger comes from not wanting to believe that Leonardo could be a traitor. And from knowing that he possibly is. Why would he resist coming to me if he were really loyal?

I don't fully believe it, though. Leonardo's honesty is his greatest flaw and he has given me his word and sworn an oath of loyalty.

I still can't ignore it if he is running around playing his own game and attracting attention. If Micheletto knows, so does the informants I am confident the Pope keeps in my court. And I have no desire to give him that card to play against me.

I sheathe my knife and take a step back, hold out my hand to help Micheletto to his feet. He tries to hide a sigh of relief and I laugh, put a hand on his shoulder: "Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

He bows his head.

"And put my engineer out of your mind until I tell you otherwise."

Again he bows his head in acquiescence, but there is a sudden hardness lurking in his features. I turn to leave. I've spent too long on this already.

"Oh-" I stop myself in the doorway: "Let us agree that if anything happens to my engineer without my express order, I will assume you had a hand in it and personally rip your eyes from your skull and feed them to you."

"I have already forgotten him." Micheletto states, seating himself painfully, rubbing his injured knee.

I smile at him and leave. I need to find Leonardo.

 

I-O-I

 

I would have never enquired after Leonardo if Micheletto had not brought it up. I would have assumed him hard at work in his study, but when I went to look for him, he was gone. The Apple is safe in its locked chest, though; a fact which brings me a modicum of comfort.

It took almost an hour to locate him. I had a few trusted people discreetly look for him in the village below the keep. It's early evening, though the autumn darkness has already settled heavily.

I’m told he’s in a small shop near the crumbled wall where my artillery broke through many months ago. The moment Leonardo returns he will be shown to my office.

I have sent my secretary and advisors away to be alone with my thoughts. I need to know what Leonardo is doing. It’s probably innocent. But I cannot be certain. Nor can I know how often he has been going off on his own errands. The assassin’s shadow hangs darkly between us and I’m not sure Leonardo would decline helping him if given the chance. If he is somehow plotting against me, or communicating with the assassins, I will at least have leverage against the Murderer in knowing it.

I woke up with Leonardo this morning. My arm around him. If he has been conspiring with the Murderer I have no choice but to have him tortured. Broken. Killed.

I push the thought away. Force my attention back to the letter to my sister. Her last communiqué was very formal and businesslike. That usually means she has found a lover. I will instruct Micheletto to take care of it after he delivers my letter.

I finally manage to push the thought about Leonardo away sufficiently to concentrate on what I’m doing. Enough so that I’m almost startled by the knock on the door. He enters. He is still wrapped in a heavy cloak, a worn leather bag hanging from his shoulder. He stands still for a moment, studying me. Then he crosses to the table and nods when I gesture with the wine glass.

“I’m told this was urgent. They wouldn’t even let me throw my cloak in my room.” he says, putting his bag on the floor and taking a seat.

“Is your grasp on petty politics as firm as it is of everything else?” I ask him.

“It seems in politics people often get hurt.” he comments evenly, leaning back in his chair, calm.

“You are a part of my politics, whether you like it or not.” I tell him. He responds only by a slight nod.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“The village.” he says. “But you already know that. Don’t you?”

I nod: “What were you doing there?”

“Plotting your untimely demise with my band of secret, bloodthirsty assassins, Your Grace.” he says and calmly takes a sip of wine. “That’s what you expect, isn’t it?”

He is so unbelievably provoking. As though I had wronged him. I fight to stay calm. I have often tricked people by hiding my anger. Made them at ease before striking. But I have no reason to expect that Leonardo wouldn’t see through it.

“Isn’t it?” he asks again.

“Of course it was!” I snap: “Do you think I would still be alive if I wasn’t careful?”

“Do you trust anyone? Anyone at all?” he laughs, incredulous. “What a life power gives.” He stands up, empties the contents of his bag on the table. Notebooks, tools for drawing, a book, a small wooden box. “There! My conspirator’s kit. Confiscate at your leisure, Your Grace.”

“Stop this. It’s ridiculous.” I tell him hotly, getting to my feet and leaning towards him across the table: “If I know that you are running your own errands, sending messages out of the city, then others know too. So what is going on!”

"There is absolutely no mention in my contract of being limited to any particular area.” he says, voice suddenly full of barely contained anger, leaning over the table menacingly: “There is no mention of my communication being restricted, as long as I don't reveal anything about my work. And I _am_ capable of holding a conversation or sending money to the woman who puts flowers on my mother’s grave without mentioning weapons of any kind." he almost shouts.

There is fury in him but he seems to be struggling to contain his indignation.

It’s a relief. Real anger is honesty. I know I can trust him now. But the rare anger in him is too precious a fire to extinguish: “I did not authorise it!“ I shout at him.

“No!” his fist pounds the table: “Neither did you authorise it last year where I did exactly the same. And if I cannot get away from that beastly sphere from Hell to work on my own projects on occasion, then I will-”

“What! What will you do, painter!”

His face is close to mine as we both stand leaned over the table. 

“I will take my contract, dip it in gravy and feed it to your favourite dog!”

We stare at each other furiously in silence. I wish to continue. To keep his anger blazing. But a sudden, treacherous bubble of laughter forms in my chest. I look down quickly, hoping he hasn’t seen the change. When I look up again to meet his harsh stare his expression has softened, his shoulders lowered. He looks away, biting his lip. The moment our eyes meet again, the last of the anger suddenly falls apart between us.

"I'm not blind to how it must appear from your field of vision. But I will not be treated like a prisoner." he finally says.

We both sit down again, staring at each other for a long while. The contents of his bag still strewn across my desk makes me laugh inwardly. It may be true that he sent the same kinds of messages last winter. I never thought about it back then. The thing that has changed between us this time is Monteriggioni.

"You never explained why you were in the village." I finally say, breaking the silence.

He gives me a hesitant smile and picks up the wooden box from the table: "It's not quite done, it hasn't been fastened properly yet." he comments as he pours the content of the box onto table. Little metal components, a small cylinder and a confusing assortment of tiny pronged wheels. He assembles a small contraption from the parts; a grooved metal barrel being wound around itself on a series of cogwheels and a fan of flat metal strips touching it.

I look at the small thing, an eyebrow raised. Leonardo smiles and holds it between his long fingers, reaches it across the table for me to see. It has a small handle and when he twirls it, the metal sheets touch the grooves in the barrel, playing a crisp little tune.

I stare at him: "You are sneaking out of the fortress under the cover of darkness to make completely pointless toys?"

"Well..." He sets the small contraption down. "I wouldn't exactly have put it like that..."

We both stare transfixed at the little metal thing for a moment. Then our eyes meet and we grin at each other.

"Why?" I ask. "It doesn’t make sense."

"You'd do it too if you were stuck with the Apple!" he smiles.

"But why there? I told you that you could have whatever materials you needed. Why go to the village when you could have been sitting comfortably in the keep?"

“I needed special tools to make this. So I made friends with a clock-maker. He had what I needed to complete it. It would take too long to send for it.”

I shake my head. Even though I try one last time to believe him false and disloyal, I cannot make myself accept that he is telling me anything but the truth.

"So what now, Your Grace?" Leonardo asks: "Have you decided to make me a prisoner; or do you trust me to do my job?"

“I trust you. But let’s return to politics.”

“The politics of trust?” he asks, bemused.

“Several opponents, if not enemies, have spies in my court. You must know that.”

“I suppose it goes without saying.”

“It’s obvious I value you. It’s obvious that we spend time together beyond what’s purely professional.” I say and the small smile in the corner of his mouth makes me wish there wasn’t a desk between us.

Leonardo shrugs: “Which means they will easily find out that I had dealings with the Auditores if they have any interest in that particular conflict. Which in turn would lead anyone to think I was not bothered by it.”

“Possibly. But it would also lead the Pope to be wary of you and consider you a danger. Especially if his spies can report that I have no knowledge of your doings.”

 He shakes his head slightly and looks at me: “I have no need for secrecy concerning my activities. All you ever needed to do was ask.”

“I just did. But now you have given me an opportunity. I need to control the information the Pope receives. Therefore I will use you to find out who my father’s spies are if you continue your private outings, if you continue attracting attention.” I tell him.

There is a strange parade of emotions flitting across his features: “I will continue as before and let you play your game. But I want no part in it.” he finally says. “I will not be the cause of anyone else getting hurt.”

“I will not hurt anyone because of this. As long as they believe themselves undetected I can use them. If they were removed, I would have to spend resources figuring out who else he has bought.”

He shakes his head:  “...I thought you were on the same side, you and the Pope.” He gets to his feet and gathers the table-strewn things into his bag: “Perhaps I will see you later tonight, Your Grace.” Leonardo says softly and leaves me with the silence.

If the threat of being a piece on the game board keeps him close, I win. If it leads to certainty about my father’s network, I win. This is a better outcome than I had dared hope for.

 

I-O-I

 

When night descends I go to him in his study. He silently kisses me. I am gentle with him tonight and, passion spent, we keep each other warm under the blankets, no words between us.

An autumn storm rises in the night-world outside; rattling the shutters, howling around corners, beating everything it meets. When the rain starts drumming and the candles are almost drowned in their own wax, Leonardo falls asleep, curled up against me, his back against my chest. My mind wanders quietly over the events of the evening and how to best employ my informants as sleep comes creeping up on me.

I slowly realise that I'm not completely certain where I end and Leonardo begins. Not certain whose heartbeat I feel in my body.

It terrifies me.

I forcefully disentangle myself from the embrace. Push away from him. Jump out of the bed, my breath fast. He wakes, alert. I can see his outline, half sitting in the bed, looking at me.

"Bad dream?" he finally asks; his voice soft.

I sit down on the bed again, reluctant. I should throw him out. Out into the storm. I should terminate the contract; get rid of him. Get rid of this risk he still poses. I know it.

“Bad dream.” I tell him tersely as I reach for my clothes and quickly get dressed. “Go back to sleep.”

I call for my scribe and my advisors and spend most of the night pretending to be interested in the diplomatic situation facing me with the other nobles holding lands next to mine. To dispel the feeling of weakness and dependence in my mind. To dispel the sensation of missing something important.

 


	5. December - January - February

**December**

I sent some people off to procure a diversion for Leonardo, to enable his distractions to take a more beneficial turn. They have made it back safely through the cold and leafless countryside.

Since our talk of politics, Leonardo has taken to long rides in the afternoon. I sometimes spot him going to the stables and riding off and I hate that! Hate giving him this freedom.

Not because I believe he will be off to meet with anyone or send messages that might threaten me. I have discounted that possibility; at least for the time being. It’s more a sort of concern for his safety. He is a valuable game piece, both for me and for the assassins. If I were on their side, I would make certain to get him back. And a lonely rider in the winter forest is an all too easy target. The fact that I value having him in my court is well known and my other enemies might also think him valuable to hold in order to gain leverage against me.

If this is what he needs to straighten out his thoughts and work, though, then I will not take it from him. I just tire at having to order people to follow him. It makes me feel like an idiot and I hate him for it. For making me display the same sort of alertness I have seen my mistress in Roma show when our small daughter is in the room, constantly crawling about, tearing things to pieces, going straight for my weapons and ruining her dresses in various creative ways before being given back to her nurse.

Hopefully this diversion will work.

I sent for Leonardo in the afternoon, not giving him time to leave his study. I pour him a glass of wine when he enters my room, holding his notebook, and he gives me a smile before taking a seat.

“That was prompt.” I tell him. “I expected the servants to have to drag you away.”

“They did.”

I grin. “I have something for you.”

“Should I be worried?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.

“No. You should be impressed at your own importance.”

“Ah!” he laughs: “If my employer wishes it, I will be.”

“How is the work progressing?” I ask as we sip our wine.

He sighs, looking suddenly tired: “I will need more paper. I also need an assistant. ...Which I am not going to get. I know.“ he says, cutting my protests off.

“Why do you need that?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

He pushes the notebook across the table for me to see. There is a mass of messy papers stuffed into it. I open the clasp and look at the contents. Some of the pages are notes but my attention falls on a picture of an odd city as I leaf through it. Build of glass and metal. Several pieces of loose papers have been glued together and on it is what appears to be a sort of map, almost like an enormous spider web, and he has added text to the conjunctions of the threads: “Languages. Uyo?”, “Does the consciousness come from here?”, “I cannot reach the woman.”, “The Knight of the World will come!”

None of this makes any kind of sense to me and in the back of my mind I feel a suspicion that he may have begun to fall victim to his intellect and slip into some sort of madness. I raise my eyes from the book and meet his gaze.

“I don’t fully understand it either.” he tells me seriously: “But I’m... The images, the content, it whips past so quickly and I need someone to help me gather the information. I cannot concentrate on papers while working with the sphere and a lot of information does not get recorded correctly-“ he stops himself and looks away, gathering his thoughts. There is a kind of growing intensity to him I’ve never seen before.

He finally shakes his head: “I don’t even know if it will help. But there is a strain involved in working with the Apple, it’s quite taxing. You told me you could feel its offering of power but below that is a grid of... intelligence almost.” he tells me and a sort of fevered excitement enters his features, his hands gesturing as he speaks: “A vast web of storage and information. They are shelves to hold wisdom but I cannot gaze upon them. It’s amazing and terrifying and I have to see it, understand it, in order to find out what the Apple actually does. What else it can offer except what we know. I have seen people and events but they are clouded and strange like dreams half forgotten or maybe I just cannot access them properly. There are so many languages in there, whipping past as fast as time itself and people speaking that have held it before and-”

“Stop!” I tell him. There is something about this frenzied lust for knowledge that unsettles me a little. His hands relax and he sinks back in his chair.

“You wanted me to find out about it.” he says softly, suddenly almost himself again. “But I will need someone trusted to help. Just for a few days; just for placing new paper under my hand while I work, if nothing else. I need to gather much more information from the Apple before I can begin to assess its true function.”

“I will look this over.” I tell him, gesturing with the notebook as I close it.

“But-“

“I have something for you. You have been working for months now and I want you to take a break.” I say, getting up, throwing the notebook on my bed. “Come with me. On the way you can tell me about the boy from your workshop that prefers a devil’s name to his Christian one...”

This comment snaps him back to an Apple-free reality and his gaze becomes alert as he looks at me. It’s a strange reaction and I smile. Obviously this has hit a nerve.

“What do you know of him?” he asks and his tone is sharp.

“Not a thing. That’s why I ask.” I tell him.

“I will not have him involved in any of this!” he says vehemently.

“This being what, exactly?” I ask pointedly.

“This petty struggle that only means something to those who fight and those who lose their loved ones in the process!” he states.

I take a step closer, studying him; fascinated at the sudden decisiveness in his demeanour. There is almost something threatening to him as he stands before me, a hint of an emotion that can easily turn to anger in his eyes.

“You are protecting him. You feel for him... Just as you feel for the assassin?” I ask; the realisation surprising me.

Leonardo lowers his eyes. He has given me information he thought I already had.

“I’m wondering...” I say, speaking before I think: “...If it had been the Murderer who attacked me, would you have slammed him against a wall?”

The wild, sudden emotions in him are fading. He finally meets my eyes: “I cannot say. I never thought I would do that to begin with. And no matter what I do I risk bringing pain to people I... care about.”

“Follow me!” I tell him sharply. He does, wordlessly, and I take him to the room close by where the canvases and paints I had my people procure from his workshop have been set up. I open the door and let him enter. He stands for a while, just looking at his half finished works and the blank canvases leaning around the room. The tools of his trade spread out on a table, the pigments and oils sitting in even rows of marked pots and jars on the shelves.

I lean on the doorframe, looking at him, arms crossed. He assumed I had hurt the boy. Hurt his lover. I hate him beyond anger for this. But I cannot take my eyes off him as he slowly moves about; runs his fingertips over the brushes on the table, over the tops of the canvases, picks a blank one up, puts it on the easel. Takes a step back. He lifts his eyes, finally, and I cannot understand the look in his face.

“Your devil is quite ready to sell your things. I doubt there will be anything left when your employment here expires!” I tell him, trying to keep my voice even, though a bitterness seeps through. I leave him there. I need to hurt someone and he has been far too expensive for it to be him.

I summon Micheletto to the training ring and begin sharpening my weapons with furious motions. If my wars and my desires are so insignificant, why does Leonardo expect his lover to come to harm! I want the boy dead! I want Leonardo terrified of me; more than I ever have. An annoying brat in his workshop and a man who would happily murder me are closest to his heart...

He will work! And if he works himself into madness, that is fine. As long as he produces results.

Micheletto will have to bear the impact of my rage for now.

 

I-O-I

 

The dawn sun wakes me, icy and sharp. There is dried blood on the back of my hand. I’m not certain whether it’s mine, Micheletto’s or perhaps belongs to the whore from last night who slowly drifts into my memory. My bed feels empty and I quickly get up. The cuts from the fight ache and the physical pain feels like a trusted companion, a good reminder that I’m alive. I remember telling Micheletto yesterday that if he held back I would kill him.

I pull my pants on. Send for my physician, my barber and my breakfast. There is a deep cut on my arm and I will need it cleaned properly. My sleeve has been stuck in the wound since yesterday and the blood has long since dried up. I pull my shirt off and let the bastard bleed.

When I’m finally done, the fresh stitches stinging and biting my skin, I set off for the stables but on the way I find the door to the painting-room ajar. I don’t want to, but I stop in my tracks. Just looking in there makes me angry. Makes me want to break every canvas and jar of precious pigment and make it all burn.

He has been working there, the brushes are all over the place and paints have been mixed on the already messy table. There are traces of paint on the edge of the canvas on the easel but it’s turned away from the door and I cannot see the image on it. He must have been working through the dark hours; a mass of lamps are scattered around the easel.

I want to keep moving. I want to feel icy wind and cold sunlight on my face and see my breath before me as clouds. _My_ breath. But instead my feet betray me and I step closer, pushing the door open. Approach the easel.

There is an odd feeling of something forbidden to this action and I remind myself that I have every right in the world to gaze on his production. I own him until September comes and I have already shown him far too much kindness. The thought of sending someone off to murder the devil boy has been playing in my mind since yesterday. Leonardo expects it of me, so why disappoint him.

I go to the canvas. The strange city I saw in his notebook stares back at me; but this time the city is being destroyed. Bizarre, colossal towers of metal and glass shatter under the onslaught of a deadly rain of fire from the greenish sky. Fatal shards of debris fill the air; pierce horrified, screaming people pointlessly trying to flee their doom. The image is oddly disjointed. The lines of graphite on the canvas are visible in many places and only some of it is filled in; little islands of colour that become windows to something horrible. It’s not in his usual careful and infinitely precise style but wild and fierce and fast gives me a sinking feeling of the devastation depicted.

“My greatest fear when I pick up the brush is that the end result will be too far from the perfection I see in my mind...”

I whirl around. Leonardo is sitting in the broad window niche behind the door, half hidden by a curtain. His arms hug his knees and his gaze rests tiredly on the cold world outside. He looks as exhausted as he did when he came here three months ago. This time, though, the wounds and blood have been replaced by smears of paint. I wish to leave him and slam the door, but the image on the easel draws me and I stand rooted to the spot, taking in the disaster and panic he has conjured.

He jumps down from the windowsill and quietly closes the door in passing, before coming to stand next to me. he shakes his head when his gaze comes to rest on the image. I can feel his warmth. Even though my thoughts are turned against him, my body immediately lusts for him.

“I meant everything I said yesterday, Your Grace.” he finally tells me and my hands curl into fists and the desire in my body turns to fury.

He looks at me: “...But I only meant it while I said it. Please forgive me.”

He doesn’t beg or plead, he asks, like an equal, which he isn’t. I cannot give him an answer. I’ve never forgiven anyone before so why should I forgive him?

I let my eyes be attracted back to the picture before us. It beckons me oddly anyway.

“What is this?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if it’s something that was, will be, never existed. Perhaps just a dream that was caught in the sphere. But it haunts. I needed to get a distance to it.”

I nod. I know about needing distance at the moment. I need to leave him here. He takes the canvas and walks to the fireplace, picks up a poker and rummage through the embers.

“What are you doing!” I demand.

“Burning it. It’s too close to what I imagined it would be and I don’t want to finish it.”

I quickly go to him and try to take the canvas but he doesn’t let go.

“I won’t let you. It’s mine! I want it.” I tell him.

“I won’t finish it.” he says and still holds it.

“Do you ever finish anything?”

“It happens.”

I pull the canvas from his hand angrily and throw it to the floor, push him against the wall by the fireplace. Hold him pinned there at arm's length. I can feel his heartbeat under my hand. He doesn’t resist me. Simply looks at me, the exhaustion gone for the moment.

I ought to punish him. Put him in his place. Be the monster he expects me to be. Imprison the devil boy and use Leonardo's love as a tool to force him to reveal everything he knows of the assassins. I have no doubt this would further my cause; that he knows much more than he lets on. Kill the boy before his eyes and then see how much Leonardo is worth to the Murderer. See if his wall-slamming loyalty is reciprocated.

His blue gaze is alert as he studies me. As though he reads me. He knows the violence in my thoughts.

He holds out his hand slowly and releases the poker he holds; it falls to the floor with a loud clatter.

"I won't resist." he says softly: "Make your move. Play your game. I'm not afraid of you."

"I know." I say. I can feel his heartbeat, calm in his chest. I don't understand it. I don't understand him.

I press against him and take a kiss from his lips. His heartbeat finally jumps. I withdraw a little, observing him. He is wary. Like he expects it to be a Judas-kiss.

"Don't be so dramatic, Leonardo." I tell him.

He says nothing. He is still on guard, watching me. But then he finally starts smiling and gently pulls me closer and kisses me back, fingers caressing my face, tangling into my hair.

When the kiss ends we are both breathless. I want him naked. I want to fuck him forcefully and the look in his eyes is an invitation to do exactly that. But I take a step back; hold him at arm’s length again.

"You should be working!" I tell him. For a second I savour the fast, excited breath in his body under my fingers.

I turn and leave him there.

I cannot sort my thoughts out. I don't understand my actions. I'm not taking adequate advantage of the situation and I can't fathom why.

He is so handsome; so sweet to my eyes. But lots of men are handsome, I suppose, and I have no interest in them. If I want physical release I have no shortage of women who would gladly strip naked and offer themselves to me. I should be worried about the assassin coming to take my life and Leonardo is a prime source of knowledge about the enemy. Why don't I use it?

When I finally get outside the weather has turned cloudy. A grey, drab rain falls steadily. I bring a group of soldiers on my ride. It would be foolish to be unaccompanied on the road; although I order them to keep a distance. I need to be alone with my thoughts.

As soon as Leonardo is added to my life it seems my actions become irresolute, contradictory, that I allow myself to lose sight of my goal. That I lose myself.

I don't understand why.

 

 

**January**

My sister was supposed to make an appearance for Christmas but the roads were closed by heavy snow from mid-December making it impossible for anyone but the most determined to travel; and not by carriage. I’m not displeased at that. She always complicates things unnecessarily.

I have been keeping myself feverishly busy with everything but the Apple. I even attended to the preparations for the Christmas celebrations, for which I care very little and my various noble guests, for whom I care even less. I also keep up a steady communication with the lords in the area who are fond of calling me "brother" and hoping to get on my good side so I won't cast my eyes on their lands next.

All to avoid seeing Leonardo, and the damned sphere, too much. To avoid feeling the hollow he leaves in my mind when he is absent. Especially now that he is absent but still so close.

Luckily he has wrapped himself up with his research so much that he might as well be a prisoner; staying in the study or working with his strange and disjointed images in the painting-room and hardly seeing anything else. He sleeps in his study too, not even coming down to his own room, close to mine. He seems to have withdrawn from me, as I try to keep my distance from him.

I miss him. On Christmas Eve I placed him close to me in the church and my mind was constantly flapping its wings around how good it would feel to touch him. Kiss him. Have his hands on me. I caught a sidelong glance from him and saw the secret little smile in the corner of his mouth.

I have never paid as much attention to the troops in the winter as I do now. I even went to watch the Swiss in their camp, holding a trial over one of their own. An activity that should really be beneath me. I make a point out of seeing the condottieri much more than I need to. Although I make certain to have alcohol, food and whores enough available to sate even the most excessive man when I meet with them, it hardly makes up for what I’m missing.

Having him close confuses and distracts me and makes my actions seem foreign to myself. But I remember thinking when he came here that I would have a year to change his mind and loyalty. I’m not even keeping to that course of action. He is so destructive to my understanding of myself! So destructive...

 

I-O-I

 

I look at the letter in my hands and they are shaking with rage. It’s an invitation from my father.

“Leave me!” I shout at the courtiers and administrators in the central hall of the keep, my voice shaking with the effort of staying calm before I attack someone. The hall is cleared with all haste as I reread the letter.

It’s an invitation like the one that brought Leonardo here. It’s obvious that I am not supposed to refuse. A craven, challenging tone demands that I make my way to Roma immediately to report on my progress. To report what I’ve done with his Apple. His Apple? The Apple he did nothing to obtain except fail every step of the way? The Apple he let a Florentine brat take from him? Twice! I cannot even shout for fury. I rip the letter to shreds and feed them to the flames.

I’m not going to Roma. I’m not reporting my progress. I’m not giving him MY Apple! I’m not giving anything to the father who didn’t even invite me to the celebration when he rose to the rank of Pope! I’m not giving the old man anything! In spite of what he says I owe him nothing but my cruelty!

I stand still in the middle of the empty hall, leaning on a table, my breath frantic in my body. I have to use the rage. I have to take action. And there is absolutely nothing I can do right now. The land is blanketed by snow and though I want to fight I cannot move the army for at least a fortnight. I’m helpless to play at anything but paltry, paper-pushing politics!

My fist helplessly pounds the tabletop until my knuckles bleed. The pain is soothing. Gives me a focus. I stand still. Try to regain control of myself. I need to see the Apple. My Apple! To hold the cursed, destructive orb.

I make my way to the study. My whims have always been quickly reported in my staff and everyone I meet, guards, servants, guests, courtiers, bow respectfully and hurry out of my way, careful not to accidentally direct my rage their way.

I throw the door to the study open.

“No!” Leonardo calls out. I stop in my tracks. He is on the floor, sitting in the middle of a broad fan of papers spread out around him. The black threads of his strange map tracing their lines from sheet to sheet.

The door opening created a draft and parts of the map scatter. He replaces them and looks up at me. Sees my dark mood and gets to his feet like a lighthouse in an ocean of paper.

“Please, Your Grace, close the door carefully?” he asks. I look at him and slam the door shut, scattering the papers anew.

He sighs and steps across his ocean to stand before me. Then he laughs, softly: “That was childish, Your Grace.” he says. I close my eyes. It should infuriate me to have a man of such low birth scold me like that but when I open my eyes to look at him he is smiling and the rage in my body is dispersing.

“What happened?” he asks me, voice kind. A finger brushes my hand with the bruised and bleeding knuckles.

“Nothing I can help at the moment.” I tell him.

He nods and his fingertips travel on to my neck. Feel the rhythm of my pulse caressingly.

Then he moves to slowly open my weapon belt, throwing my defence to the floor. He undoes the strings of my heavy doublet, my shirt, takes them from me, his hands on my chest and neck caressing me softly.

I finally reach out for him, hold him close; taste his lips. I've longed for this so painfully. I've fought against it for what seems like an eternity, though it's only been a few weeks.

He draws me to the bed, arranges his pillows in the corner and leans back on them beckoning me closer, makes me sit with my back against his chest, his arms around me, his kisses to my neck. There is not much I can do, sitting like this, and I run my hands over his legs. His fingers open my belt, push my pants down; touch me so softly it makes me sigh with delight, press my back against his warm chest, turn my head to kiss his neck.

I let myself be adrift in the closeness. I can feel his excited breath on my skin but he does nothing but please me, his hands holding, stroking, teasing, caressing. I feel his smile on my shoulder and neck when he kisses me. My hands tighten on his thighs. But he continues the onslaught of tender, exhilarating touches. He knows I'm close; he knows my breath, my sounds and he doesn't let go of me.

Release, with his arm wrapped around me, his warm lips on my skin. He holds me, his hand sticky, he laughs softly in my ear.

"My turn." he whispers breathlessly and pushes me around to lie flat on my stomach, not an altogether pleasant experience. He pulls my pants down before I can stop him and his wet fingers touch me.

I open my mouth to yell at him to stop, but all that escapes my lips is a strangled moan of pleasure. I feel him touch himself with the wetness on his hand. I begin to lift myself up from the bed, to push him away, throw him off.

He quickly pins my arm behind my back, straddling me, holds me down and takes me. It makes me hard again, my moans spur him on. It's so good. Though my mind reels at it my body loves it. He is done all too soon and he releases my arm, leans in over me, his chest against my back, kissing my ear softly; panting breath delicious on my skin.

He withdraws and lets himself fall down next to me. I lie there, numb at the absence of the rage. I should be furious that he has done this to me. There is nothing left now. I might be his employer but I’m not his master and I never will be. I slowly turn towards him.

We are silent while our heartbeats return to normal. He sends me a sidelong glance and finally rolls onto his side.

“Somehow, miraculously, I’m still alive...” he muses.

I look at him, at the annoying little smile threatening to burst into a laugh.

“I don't understand it either.” I tell him.

He reaches out; brushes my hair away from my face, studies me: "We are not done, are we?" he asks.

"No!" I tell him with conviction. We grin at each other as we undress and crawl under the blankets to escape the chill in the chamber.

Our hands travel under the covers. The arousal in me is a dull flame, kept constant by his warmth, and can blaze again when needed. He leans closer for a kiss and my hand comes to rest on his side. I pull the blanket off and look at the scars that paint his ribs.

"What happened on the journey?" I ask. Talking is a breach of the rules somehow; but he started it. Besides, this is different. We've never gone to bed in the middle of the day before, shirking all our duties to the waking world. I follow the pattern of scarring with a finger and he squirms when it tickles.

"You know what happened. I'm sure they told you?" he says, smiling under my touch.

"I want to hear it from you."

"You almost had them executed after telling you. Do you see the source of my reluctance?"

I push him over: "For once, just do as you are told!"  

"Fine." He rolls back to lie on his side and shrugs: "They came to my door. I had just sent my apprentices and my assistant away and told them I was travelling; so I was alone. They told me to come with them. I told them no and slammed the door in their faces. They began breaking the door down. I ran and was knocked out by the man waiting at the back door. Very smooth. You'd have been proud." he adds.

I frown to dismiss that notion.

"We were already out of the city when I came to." he looks at me: "You are aware that this is not a happy memory?"

"Quite." I nod. "But I want to know what happened."

He sighs: "Cesare... Why?"

"Because" I tell him, putting my hands on his face and kissing him: "I'm responsible for your scars."

He sends me a strange, piercing look. "I..." he stops himself but then seems to make up his mind, nodding his head a little: "I ran the next day. They obviously thought I'd accepted my fate so there was no problem telling them that I needed to take a piss and walk off into the forest. Then I ran all the way back to a tavern we had passed. They only had the horses drawing the wagon so they were slow to follow. I hoped the people in the tavern could help me. But your brave soldiers were quite happy to turn their weapons on a child there and tell me they would kill her if I didn't come quietly. So I did."

I nod. Careful to keep my expression blank. My people must at least have been bright enough to have figured Leonardo out in just a day. I would have laughed if someone expected me to comply because someone else's child was in danger.

"After that, they kept me chained and took away my boots." Leonardo continues. It almost sounds like he is relieved to tell the story. "I was locked in the wagon, but I kept quiet and didn't cause any trouble and they relaxed a little after a while and let me out of the chains. So I picked the lock on the wagon one night with an eating knife I lifted from one of them when his attention was elsewhere."

I look at him: "You stole a knife and you used it to pick the lock?"

"What else? Should I have murdered them in their sleep?"

I choose not to answer this. Just shake my head to dismiss it and gesture for him to continue.

"I made it into the forest before they woke up. I don’t know what woke them. They followed me." he says, a grim expression on his face.

"Well?" I ask. I want to know how the third man in the group died.

He looks at me: "I... don't know if you are aware how hard it is to sneak through an autumn forest on your bare feet in the middle of the night?"

"Not as such."

"Well, it's not easy... They found me, I started running. One of them nearly caught me, he was right on my heels, and then another shouted for me to stop, that he had a pistol on me and would kill me. That he would rather present my corpse to you and take his chances than show up empty-handed. So I stopped and he was aiming at me and I simply dodged and ran and he fired and hit his own man..." he says, gesturing with his hands.

I try not to laugh. They were my people, after all. I should be angry at their incompetence.

"So even though I didn't pull the trigger, it was my actions that resulted in that man's suffering and death." he says and turns away, lying flat on his back. "I might as well have killed him. It would have been quicker."

"What happened then?" I ask, my hand on his chest.

"He ran me down, tackled me, beat me. I tried to resist, but..." he shrugs, feigning indifference.  "I don't really remember anything after that, just vague images. I was chained and the only drink they would give me was laced with... whatever it was. It kept me asleep or only half conscious. ...I suppose it was not so bad since it allowed me to heal a little without the pain. They put the wounded man next to me in the wagon. I wasn’t awake when he died."

“You handled yourself with a lot of determination. It’s good.” I tell him.

“Their leader kept telling me to be proud at being summoned by the fiercest, most glorious Prince in all Italia. That I was foolish to resist.” he reflects. “...Kept telling me he didn’t understand why I would refuse you.”

I quickly put an arm around him and draw him closer. There is a sudden distance to him in reminding himself of this, which I don’t like. 

He responds with a kiss. “I never thanked you for the paint.” he says softly, changing the subject.

“Even if it is just to keep you from running about where you might cause trouble?” I find myself asking, half laughing.

“Even then.” he grins, unsurprised.

I’ve never respected anyone without seeing it as a challenge before. He is closer to me now than anyone I know. Close enough for truth.

And I will lose that when September comes.

 

  

**February**

I received a message from my sister. She insists I should go to Roma. That I should pay attention to the prisoner before my father does. Sforza has finally been transferred there. She annoyingly turned herself over as a prisoner of the French. They have laws against making women prisoners of war. Having her transferred to my keeping has been an annoying little battle of formalities with General d'Allègre. I have promised him to treat the Countess as a guest and I very much intend to.

Besides, there are some things I need Lucrezia to do for me and if she insists on being reminded of her duties towards her brother, I will oblige her. My father has been tiresomely stingy with my funds and my little sister is the best cure for these pope-related annoyances. Her slender legs and soft lips can solve most of my problems.

There are other matters I will need to take care of in Roma too. Plotting for power is a time consuming affair. I will be as quick and precise about it as possible, though. I will soon be ready to move the army.

 

I-O-I

 

I go to Leonardo’s study. As I am about to put the key in the lock, I hear quick footsteps from the other side and he tears the door open; a hurried, almost panicked look in his face. I tense on instinct. He jumps at the sight of me but quickly recovers and pushes past me down the stairs.

"What!" I demand.

He turns on the stairs, pointing back at the study: "I don't want to be in the same room as that ghastly... thing!" he exclaims vehemently.

Puzzled, I look into the room. The Apple sits on the table, doing all it can to look innocent. I look back at Leonardo. There is a sort of horror in his eyes and his hands are shaking.

“I need a drink!” he states.

I laugh, incredulous, as I lock the study door and gesture for him to lead the way. I will not miss out on this.

He walks very fast and in the busy kitchen he asks for a jug of grappa and a cup, pointedly telling them not to give him anything apple-flavoured. I smile at this, watching him. The kitchen staff is as respectful towards me as they should be, but to him they smile and he knows their names. I follow him again, out into the courtyard and up on the walls of the keep where we can see the city below us. I send a soldier off to see to it that we get our cloaks. There is little wind, but the cold air bites.

Leonardo slumps down on a crate, leans against the wall.  His gaze wanders over the horizon. He looks tired, worn. I have to know what happened but there is no point rushing him, so I take a seat next to him, waiting.

My attendant comes running with our cloaks. As I wrap myself up against the cold I see the man instructing the soldiers on guard to give us privacy. He is worth everything I pay him!

Leonardo finally moves, wraps himself in his cloak and pours a cup of the clear liquor. Tosses it back in one go. He grimaces slightly and sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. We sit in silence for a while, taking in the leafless, sunsetting world around us.

“I will have to go to Roma in a few days. Perhaps you should take a break while I'm away?” I finally say.

He pours another cup, twirling it between his long fingers. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He finally smiles at me.

“What happened?” I ask.

He takes another drink. “The Apple... I...” he shakes his head: “I am making some progress, I suppose.” he tells me enigmatically and empties the cup.

I look at him expectantly. The haunted look in his eyes is back when he holds my gaze.

“I found a way into some of the shelves. Found a way to open some of the experiences stored in there.” he begins: “...And now I wish I hadn’t. It’s as if it keeps a record of every feeling; every murderous, malicious feeling. All the desperation, the failed attempts, everything anyone who picked it up ever felt.”

“How do you mean?” I ask. It sounds odd. With a touch of insanity.

“...The man using it to murder the one who caused his son’s death. Not certain if his little boy died believing he had ordered the execution. The woman who made her husband and brothers kill each other with hideous poisons so she could take over her tribe. They died screaming and bloated, in horrible agony. They didn't even look like people anymore and she felt justified doing it. They had thrown her baby girl to the desert predators for being born with a crippled foot. The hungry, power craving people who enslaved others for their personal gain; all the lust for authority. All the people who picked the Apple up to right a wrong, to fix a world they thought was broken, no matter the price in lives. All the death. The wars. So much blood and carnage.” Leonardo finally takes a heaving breath, closes his eyes.

I look at him as he calms. Then he slowly, deliberately, pours himself another cup.

“You weren’t made for that. ...For violence. I know.” I tell him. He is so soft. It will never cease to mystify me that it attracts me so much to see how bloodshed unsettles him. He leans a little closer so that our shoulders touch and I feel him relaxing a little.

“The violence isn't the worst of it.” he tells me tonelessly: “If it keeps records of everything, everyone, then as I am studying it, it’s also studying me. I can feel it in my mind. Doing whatever horrible thing it does. It’s awful.”

He takes a drink again, puts the cup down and rubs his eyes: “I thought the job would be easy. Interesting, surely; but not hard.” He starts laughing.

“If you work yourself into terror I’ll not get everything I paid for.” I tell him.

“I think I might take a few days just with my notes. ...It’s insane.” he adds, shaking his head.

“What is?”

“My life.”

“Not what you expected of it?” I ask.

“I thought I’d be painting. Not balancing on the edge of an ancient, semi-occult war...”

“If it’s any consolation, you do it annoyingly well.”

“You know... Sometimes I wish I had slammed the door in his face.” he muses, almost to himself.

“Who?”

He looks away for a moment: “Ezio.” he finally says, his voice soft. “If I had, all those years ago, I _would_ have been painting.”

I try to calm myself, not to rush the questions. He has never brought the Murderer up unprompted. Perhaps it’s the drink.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask casually after a while.

He catches my gaze and I can see the reluctance in him.

“I’m not sure.” He shakes his head: “I remembered him. But it had been two years since I had heard anything of the Auditores. I was scared of him, I suppose, but he seemed so lost. So terribly human. He fell asleep while I was working. I think I felt a little sorry for him.”

“Scared? Sorry? How the hell did that earn your loyalty?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Leonardo gives me a sidelong glance as he empties his cup. He pours a fresh one and hands it to me: “If we're going to do this, you will give me some truth in return.” he tells me with finality.

I accept the cup: “Is this your idea of politics?” I ask him.

“No. It’s my idea of fairness. ...And friendship.” he adds. “Even if everything between us is so complex we need alcohol to guide our way through the fog.”

I stare at the clear liquid. It’s a stupid and risky exercise. For both of us, I suppose. I drain the cup. The warmth of the liquor spreads quickly in my body, keeping the evening chill at bay. I hold the cup out and he refills it solemnly.

“So?” I ask.

“He earned my trust shortly after I met him again. I helped him fix one of his weapons. I knew what he had done. It was all over the city when it happened. There had apparently been a rumour circulating about me; that I knew him. Someone must have seen him at my house. One day some guardsmen showed up. He... solved the problem. Though I didn’t like the method, he proved to me that he appreciated my assistance enough to protect me from the repercussions of helping him. I don’t know who he bribed or threatened, or worse, to keep me safe after that. But whatever he did, it kept me out of harm’s way.” he says.

“...Let you go unpunished for aiding a murderer.” I say. It’s a heavy crime. He cannot possibly be drunk after just three cups, and he seems calmer; steadier now, the horror from the Apple seems to have diminished. I could, and should, have him executed for this crime. I must assume he trusts me.

“Mhm.” He nods, composed. “Aiding a murderer. I never even had any illusions about it. No lack of knowledge to hide behind.” he says: “Now it’s your turn to be honest.”

He reaches out and pokes my hand holding the cup, urging me to drink.

“I don’t believe this...” I mutter and take a drink.

“Believe it.” he says. “You are not going to punish me; we both know that.”

I send him a sharp look. One thing is that he is right; another is to flaunt the fact.

“Perhaps you can also tell me why that is!” I insist. “Why do you get away with this!”

“Two reasons.” he tells me: “First is that I never challenge you when others are around. Second is that you like it.”

“I like it?”

Leonardo nods. “And you prove it in everything you do. If you didn’t like it, I would obviously never have gotten away with it. Why you like it, though; that I cannot answer.” He gestures with the jug of liquor. I empty the cup and let him refill it. He draws his legs up to his chest, elbows resting on his knees, his long fingers interlocking in front of him. “My turn.” he states.

I nod. He is right in everything he said and I hate how he reads every little thing I do, every action, every reaction laid bare before his terrible scrutiny. Or maybe I’m an open book to the world and he is the only one with the courage to tell me. The thought terrifies me.

“Why do you fight?” he asks, pulling me from my reverie.

“What?”

“This war. Why?” he shrugs and takes the cup from me, drains it, refills it, hands it back.

“I... Have no other choice. What else would I do? Prance around in a nice, red cardinal’s dress again?”

He grins and shakes his head: “I didn’t mean why you fight to conquer others. That makes sense. But do you really believe that the fight between you and the assassins is meaningful?”

I’m about to say yes, but stop myself. Answering him like that will only lead to more severe questions and I’d rather deal with his lust for knowledge in short doses.

I take a drink, mostly to have time to compel my thoughts into formation.

“Have you ever known an uneducated man who, when left to his own devices, did any good for anyone?” I finally ask him. “The assassins’ absurd idea that freedom somehow breeds a liveable society is deeply implausible. I fight because of that. They are dangerous because of that. Putting forth ideas that are hazardous to the foundation of everything we know to be true and good. The way they would sanctify every fool's right to use force if he thinks it the easiest and then hide behind the idea that this is freedom and therefore good.”

He leans a little closer. It’s almost dark around us now. He studies me for a while and for once I know what he is thinking. He opens his mouth to speak and I hold up a hand to stop him: “Yes. I also fight the war because it gives me resources to carry my own desires to fruition. Just as I’m sure your assassin does. Though his desire is vengeance, not conquest, if I’m not misinformed?”

Leonardo nods quietly in the gloom: “Do you believe it will ever stop?” he finally asks.

“I will do what I can to end it. But not for the useless dotards who are queuing up to call me their Brother of the Temple. I will do it for my own glory!”

“Isn’t that somewhat vengeful too?” he muses.

“It’s my turn now. I already gave you an answer to two questions!” I snap childishly.

He laughs in the darkness. There is quiet all around us. The soldiers carefully take other rounds to avoid disturbing us. I drink what’s left in the cup and toss it over the wall. Reach out for him and kiss him roughly. He readily gives in, returns the needy kiss with fervour.

There is a new thrill to this. Knowing that someone could see us, hear us. I'm torn between sating my lust, right here and now, and having my questions answered. As though he senses my conflicting impulses he smiles as he kisses me. It finally makes me laugh and push I him away.

"No." I grin. "I'm not letting you out of it that easily."

"Fuck!" he laughs in the darkness and puts an arm around me under my cloak, as I let my hand feel his thigh. A few moments pass in caressing silence and suddenly we are too close to each other and my decision dissolves into another kiss, our hands and bodies greedy.

"Damn you! Stop it!" I finally snap, pushing him away from me, getting up: "Tell me about him!" I demand.

Leonardo laughs. Then he gives a grinning sigh: "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Where can I find him?" I ask dryly.

"I don't know. Is it my turn now?" he laughs, taking a drink from the bottle.

"Then just tell me about him. I want to know what you see in him." I reach out and take the bottle before sitting down again.

"What I see in him? He's a bit like a cat. Like taking in a battle-scarred, stray tomcat. It retains the right to come and go as it pleases but very quickly expects to be fed, petted and have the choicest spot in the sun. And it gets grumpy the second you move its favourite pillow from the window sill or thinks it can wait a moment with its dinner."

He grins to himself in the darkness: "Actually, I've been wondering why I like cats at all. They are terribly cruel and selfish. But also elegant and caring. If they weren't beautiful, though, I doubt if anyone would feel comfortable letting them into their homes."

I desperately want to ask him if that is all. If he simply helps the Murderer because he is attractive. It's a much more shallow reason than what I would have expected and hardly seems worth risking his life and safety over. I hold my tongue, however. If I start questioning him, he might withdraw. I take a drink. The night is getting really cold. I hand him the bottle.

"He is..." Leonardo begins and then pauses for a drink: "He has solved so many problems by force that he sometimes stumbles when force is not an option. If we argue and I’m winning, and honestly, I usually am, he can become completely cold and detached. Frighteningly icy, as though rethinking his policy of not harming me. But then he just gives me a smile as if to tell me "I’m too charming for you to yell at...” and I really want to kick myself when I agree with that sentiment. ...I have no idea how he gets away with that.”

I reach out for the bottle: "Go on." I tell him. I need to know whatever he can tell me about my enemy. I don’t want him to remind himself of his feelings for the Murderer but he might slip and give me more than he intends.

He is silent for a while, as though thinking things over. "I once asked him if he was aware what was being shouted about him by the city heralds. He told me: Well, if I'm walking down the street and I have a corpse on me, I just chuck it at the heralds to stop them spreading lies about me..."

I can hear in Leonardo's voice that he is grinning in the darkness. I close my eyes and let the wall support me. I really don't want to hear any of this. Hear the wistful tenderness in his tone. But I need to know what I'm up against.

“That was when I found out that he has a sense of humour.” Leonardo continues: “It just took it several years to surface. It took so long for me to really meet the man under that damned prison of a hood he wears to keep the world away. Maybe that’s why I can’t let him go now. Because of the trust he has shown me in letting me be close.”

“So that’s your price?” I ask. “Trust?”

“You sound surprised?” he says. “I think it’s quite a common trait in humans...”

“It’s why you love him?” I demand and take a drink to support myself after letting that sentence pass my lips.

“I’m really not sure I can answer that. Why do you love the people you love, Your Grace?” he asks softly.

“I love my sister because she’s my sister and my children because they are my children.” I shrug in the darkness.

“I suppose that’s as good an answer as any. It’s my turn to ask.”

I nod in the darkness. I have a feeling my brother’s fate is next and I’m not certain I can trust him that far. That I want to trust him with the truth.

He seems to be gathering his thoughts for a moment before speaking: “Tell me about your life when you were growing up? What’s the first thing you remember?”

The question is strange and takes me by surprise: “Why is that in any way relevant?” I finally ask and he just laughs and says nothing. When he reaches out for the bottle in the darkness, his hand is warm against mine.

“Fine. I...” I search my memory. I cannot tell him about the servant dying on the carpet although it’s one of my first moments of consciousness; where I know that my thoughts were my own. “I had tutors. As far back as I remember my time was being wasted with priestly pastimes that meant nothing to me. That’s all!”

“That’s not a memory. It’s just a fact you know to be true.”

“...Curse you, painter.” I mutter.

He gives a soft laugh: “What is the first thing you remember?” he repeats mercilessly.

“I... remember being angry at my Spanish tutor. He taught me Greek and he hit my fingers with a stick a lot.”

“What’s the first damned thing you remember!” Leonardo demands loudly, fuelling a sudden spike of anger in my chest with his harsh tone.

“My sister crying!” I snap back at him before I think. I stop myself and Leonardo is silent beside me, waiting. I never thought about this. Not since I was a child.

“She cried when my father was visiting.” I say. I want to stop the telling of this. I want the words to die before they reach my lips. “I think I was around ten years old when I finally asked him why. I demanded that he tell me. He beat me. So badly I was in bed for weeks after. I remember he screamed that he was happy he had signed me off as the son of Domenico d'Arignano early on and he knew I would be troublesome. Wilful.”

Leonardo says nothing. It's oddly intimidating. There are too many things I could tell him. And there is too much darkness around us. I angrily reach out and pull the bottle from his hand, throw it to the floor where the clay breaks with a brittle sound: "We have had enough!" I state forcefully. "And I've let you get away with too much today. Follow me!"

He gets up and I can make out his outline in the darkness; he bows his head: "I'm yours to command, Your Grace."

"I will be sure to do so!" I snap at him as I turn to leave. He follows, feeling his way with a hand on the wall. He is blinder, apparently, in the darkness than I am.

He will warm me. And I will go to my own bed and sleep alone. I cannot hold him or endure his caresses before sleep with this threat of honesty, of betraying my own secrets, hanging over my head. I will leave for Roma tomorrow. I have to leave!


	6. March - April - May - June - July

**March**

When I returned from Roma, Leonardo met me on the road a couple of hours' journey from the keep. I saw him in the distance. A single rider, wrapped up in a heavy cloak against the pouring rain, head bent under the hood as if lost in his own world. He looked as lonely as a hangman in the grey and drenched landscape but lit up when he finally lifted his gaze and spotted the entourage. How a genius could manage to be ignorant of two hundred armed men on horseback and a sizeable wagon train approaching, I cannot fathom.

I enjoyed the kindness and courtesy he showed my sister. She had insisted on travelling back with me on the excuse that Giovanni, our young son, riding in his own wagon with his nurse, needed to spend time with his father. Lucrezia was squirming with barely contained curiosity from the window of her comfortable carriage and the moment I led Leonardo ahead of the entourage she immediately began a whispered and urgent conversation with her lady in waiting.

I have a new toy my little sister can't play with... It delights me!

 

I-O-I

 

Lucrezia immediately tried to find out about Leonardo as soon as we returned to the keep. Though whether this desire is her own, or if she is running my father's errand, I cannot be certain. Likely both...

I secretly listened in on a conversation she had with Leonardo in the painting-room shortly after we arrived. She did everything to make him disclose what he was employed to do. She began be being imperious and commanding; then changed her tactic to coyly flirtatious.

He skilfully and courteously led the conversation to everywhere else than where she wanted it to go and I had to bite my lip not to laugh and give my presence away. Anyone who could convince Leonardo to do politics on their behalf would have a formidable ally. The more questions she asked the more he diverted her inquisitiveness to far afield subjects or gave completely uncommitting answers, while still sounding quite firm. Like a man serenely dodging bullets.

It's quite rare to find a man who does not immediately give her whatever she desires on the off chance that he might get to touch her perfect tits.

In the course of their conversation, she spotted the ridiculous musical toy from Leonardo’s private outing to the village. She twirled the handle, making the toy play its snappy little tune, and suddenly the layers of calculation and scheming vanished. She gave a sweet little laugh and a happy exclamation. It was strange. As though for a brief moment time had given up on us and made us children again. Leonardo gifted her the toy and when she thanked him there was a sincerity in her voice that made a jealous spike of anger flare in me. I have murdered men for less.

That night I asked him what he thought of her and he called her vibrant and challenging. I asked if he thought her beautiful and he just nodded and simply commented that she was unlikely to sit still long enough for him to capture her image on paper, not unlike her brother. Oddly, this dispelled the jealousy. I don’t believe he has an erotic interest in her; a fact I find quite gratifying.

She will continue to try to beguile him, though. Of that I have no doubt. And when she finds herself failing, her brother will console her and tell her she is still beautiful.

 

I-O-I

 

I have been busy preparing the season's campaign. Planning is crucial but opportunity, and seizing it, is just as much a part of successful warfare.

The French armies have been dispatched as agreed and my troops are marching for Napoli under Micheletto's watchful eyes.

It's soon time to move. I don’t want to leave the Apple. I don't want to leave Leonardo. But bringing the artefact with me is too hazardous, too vulnerable. I remember how uneasy Leonardo seemed last spring when he followed the army for just a week or two and he never even saw any combat. I doubt if I could get any work out of him in the field.

No matter my conflicting feelings, I have no choice. Armies are expensive things and the momentum has long since been built. I must follow and play my part; face my destiny.

I will soon have a kingdom.

Now I just need to get control of my father. He somehow allows himself to think that he is in charge. If only I could afford to get rid of him...

Depending on how the campaign fares it will be quite a while before I’ll see Leonardo again. I have given myself seven days before my departure. I will have to make the most of it.

 

I-O-I

 

Sometimes when I look at Giovanni, my son, there is a look in his eyes or a small gesture he makes when he speaks and suddenly there is an adult air about him and I get a glimpse of the man he will become one day. He is a bright boy.

He pauses for a moment to study the scar on his thumb. I gave it to him. Cut deep the knuckle of his small hand when he wanted to play with my knife. Whenever he will have occasion to draw a weapon in the future he will see the scar to remind him of the seriousness of his actions, remind him what knives do. It’s the best gift a father can give; an understanding of consequences.

“…But who is Leonardo?” Giovanni looks up at me, his eyes as green as Lucrezia’s.

“He is my military engineer.” I tell him.

Giovanni responds with a frown.

“Do you know what engineer means?” I ask and he shakes his head.

“It means that he builds siege engines for battle. Trebuchets and cannons and fortifications.” I explain.

“I want to see!” Giovanni exclaims.

“Perhaps I will let you see later. If you are good.” I tell him.

“I am!” Giovanni says and in a wild exhibition of four year old logic he suddenly grips his wooden sword and jumps to his feet: “I’m an assassin!” he yells and his grin shows the perfect row of tiny milk teeth like a string of pearls.

“Hah! I’m not afraid of you.” I taunt, laughing at him and dodging out of the way of the wild swing of the wooden sword.

He chases me and I grab an empty candle holder from the table to defend myself with, parrying his blows. We laugh as the fight continues around the table while I try to keep so much of a distance to his uncoordinated attacks that I won’t end up hitting him with the candle holder.

He climbs onto the table and I pretend to be winded while he gets his footing on the tabletop. He takes the time to snarl menacingly at me before he attacks again and I laugh as I parry the sword swooshing towards my head.

Giovanni suddenly throws the sword in my direction and fearlessly leaps at me, his forehead impacting with my eyebrow painfully. I manage to catch him at the last second, dropping the candle holder to the floor in the process.

“Not bad!” I laugh through the pain, holding him with one arm and rubbing my eyebrow. He grins at me and puts his small hands on my face.

“I killed you.” he states.

“Yes you did.” I tell him. “But do you remember what assassins are?”

“Dogs without honour who must be put down.” he tells me faithfully.

I nod and ruffle his hair: “Do you want to be an assassin?”

“I’m going to be like you.” Giovanni grins: “Now we can go and see the cannons.” he states, as if he is giving me permission to take him there. He puts his arms around my neck.

“But I told you we could go if you were good. And you just attacked me.” I say.

“But I killed you. So I decide.” he argues.

“Giovanni has a point, I believe.”

I turn. Lucrezia is standing in the doorway. Her hair a golden frame around her pretty face. She is smiling: “Dead men don’t have opinions, do they?”

I laugh: “Do you see how lucky you just were?” I ask the boy in my arms. He shakes his head.

“The most beautiful woman on Earth just spoke in your favour. Now I have to agree too. We can go and see the cannons.” I explain and watch as a happy grin spreads on his face.

Lucrezia is close. She leans in to kiss Giovanni’s cheek while her hand caresses the back of my neck.

“My favourite men.” she whispers sweetly.

Giovanni wipes his cheek with his sleeve.

 

 

I-O-I

 

In the few weeks I've been in Roma, Leonardo seems to have grown a little thinner. He spends hours with the Apple, secluded in his study. I should be pleased, but work is not what I desire from him right now.

I spend the nights with him in his study. The silence between us is as sweet as the first time I had him.

There is a feeling of imminent loss in my mind as we lie together afterwards, just looking at each other mutely in the flickering light of the embers. I fall asleep with his fingers gently running through my hair.

There are four days left before my departure.

 

I-O-I

 

I find myself suddenly sitting bolt upright in the bed! Something woke me and for a brief moment I’m confused, although my body reacts without conscious bidding; I fling the blanket aside and am carried to my feet in the small study, alert as though expecting an attack. I look around as I stand there, heart pounding. It’s still night outside. I must have slept for a few hours at the most.

There is a soft light. Leonardo sits by the desk, his hand on the Apple. His features bathed in a ghostly glow from the artefact. His eyes are closed but even so his hand is taking notes. There is something disturbing to this sight. I quickly get dressed and light the candles in the room; go to stand beside him.

He doesn’t react to my presence. The paper under his hand is completely covered in several layers of script. He must not be aware enough to put fresh paper under his stylus, but still be under his perpetual note taking spell. I frown and take the illegible paper away. Try to still the motions of his hand. He turns his head, looking at me silently and without seeing me; but there is a golden radiance smouldering in his gaze which makes me release his hand and take a quick step backwards, suddenly flooded with unease. He is so unfamiliar right now it makes me hesitate.

He turns his gaze to the sphere, unseeing, and his hand continues to write on the tabletop. Angry at myself for my weakness I put a piece of paper under his hand. He writes. I read as the text flows from his mind to the dry surface of the paper. He is writing in Greek.  

_I remind myself that I took it from Paramenos and that Eris’ gift therefore does not make me invulnerable. But for all the reminding, I now have my lover. I have my lands. My riches. And I must guard against any who would seek to take it from me. Any who would wrest the Apple of Discord from my hands. It will not happen before I make my bed in Tartaros. I will slay any who come near it. They will die tasting the bronze of my spear on their tongues._

I sit down next to him, read as he writes, page after page of Greek, Latin and many other languages I cannot begin to comprehend. Some look like strange, square drawings rather than words. Some languages look more like decorative doodles, as in the margins of the manuscripts of old, than they do words. I wonder if he understands what he is writing. Or if the Apple is merely dictating.

After a while of this I go down the stairs and tell the guards to wake a servant and bring more paper. When I return, the paper under his hand is already twice written on.

The writing becomes drawings. Like pictures of mechanical contraptions and how to piece them together. I see no recognisable things, however, no cogwheels or spikes or anything that could be put together with modern means. These odd, technical drawings become interspersed with long pages of simply straight lines and circles. If it’s a code, it’s a strange one.

I remember that he wanted an assistant. That he asked for someone trusted to put paper under his hand if nothing else. But that was long ago. Is this strange state normal for him? Has he been using the apple like this for months?

I stop reading the odd words and codes after a while and merely glance at the drawings. Most are incomprehensible but some are pictures of landscapes, jotted down hurriedly as though he sees them in passing. Other slightly recognisable things appear in the ocean of notes from time to time, hurried portraits of people, their essence captured expertly with just a few, quick lines. Many seem to be warriors of one kind or another.

The work is repetitive and dull and I grow tired as the hours pass. I don’t appreciate being a painter’s assistant. I finally call for some food to be brought and have a very early breakfast while I move the papers under his hand. A large heap of notes have gathered on the desk. I take a blanket from the bed and wrap myself up when I’m done with my food. On a whim, I reach out to touch the back of his neck under his shirt. His skin is icy.

Dawn is a few hours away when I yawningly notice that his hand is still. His eyes are closed and he is leaning forward in his seat. The hand on the Apple is gripping it so tightly that his knuckles have turned a painful white. I look to the paper.

There is a woman drawn there.

Hers is not a gentle beauty, but cold and hard and stunning. If somehow he sees her, wherever his mind flies in the sphere, I feel sorry for him. It must be like gazing upon a cruel goddess. Rage burns in her eyes.

He sits unmoving but his breath becomes fast and heaving. I get to my feet and lean over the table to look at him. His eyes under the closed lids are observing something quite frantically. I stare at him as a drop of blood hits the tabletop. His nose is bleeding. I should take the Apple from him, but everything in my mind screams at me not to touch the cursed thing.

I grab his wrist to try to make him let go of the sphere. His muscles are completely locked, his breath panicked and painful as though he had just run a very long distance and the blood is streaming unhindered down his chin.

I quickly push the chair he sits in away from the table, to better wrest the apple from him, just as a horrible, thin scream escapes his lips. I grab his arm and hit his hand hard against the edge of the table until he lets go of the artefact. It rolls away and I forget about it as I fight to get Leonardo to the floor. He is convulsing madly and his eyes are rolled into his skull. I try to press him down, to keep him from hurting himself and suddenly he lies still, slumped on the floor. His face bloody, the eerie scream ended.

I put a hand on his chest. The beat of the heart is erratic and wild although he looks like a dead man. Swearing loudly I scramble for the Apple, pick it up in a blanket and throw it in a chest by the bed. Gather the papers hurriedly and turn them face down before I call for help. Call for them to move him down to his room. For the physician to be brought without delay.

I stand and watch as they place him in his bed. He might be dead for all I know. The blood smearing his face is in stark contrast to his pale skin. My physician arrives in a flutter of black robes, dishevelled from the sleep he was deprived of, and bends over his patient to take some blood from his arm. I see Leonardo’s eyes open. His horror when he sees the knife.

Leonardo pulls his arm away with a wordless cry and the knife cuts deep the second before he punches my physician, sending the man sprawling to the floor. The soldiers who carried Leonardo here hurry to the bedside to hold him down. One of them is kicked in the chest, landing in a heap at my feet. I would be laughing if this absurd panic wasn’t so unreal and I find myself rooted to the spot, simply staring at the strange battle before me.

When finally they manage to subdue him, and force him to take a solid dose of somniferum and hemlock, he slumps down, looking even more dead to my tired eyes than he did in his study. Several of the soldiers sport bruises and punches, one has a broken nose, one clutches his ribs and can hardly stand. I look at them and finally the laughter that has been hiding under the surface is released. Four of my guardsmen mauled by a semi-comatose painter. My physician can hardly see out of his bruised eye as he tries to stitch and bandage the cut to Leonardo’s arm.

I laugh hard and when the mirth is spent I order my attendant to go to the city to find a deaf person to sit with him, in case he should begin talking in his sleep. I cannot have him tell any random servant about the Apple. My physician prescribes rest and prayer and I send a guard off to make the arrangements with the priests in my staff. It’s quite a pity Micheletto is away. Making him watch over Leonardo would have been rather satisfying...

I order them to keep me apprised the moment he wakes up and go to catch an hour of sleep as the sun lifts its face above the horizon. But my private rooms seem too quiet and the sleep I thought would come easy eludes me. The cold, hard beauty of the woman Leonardo drew keeps haunting my mind in the silence.

 

I-O-I

 

There is a tentative knock on the door, as though he is unsure if I'm in here. I heard his slow steps on the stairs to the study. I look at the map before me, his strange web of information, grown to be so big and intricate that the papers glued together form a giant sheet that covers the entire table and falls down on either side.

When Leonardo pushes the door open I cannot help but frown; he seems older and greyer than before. Frail. Worn out. He sits down across from me without a word. Rearranges the heavy cloak that wraps around him. There is something almost haunted to the way he looks around in the room, gazes at the heavy chest the Apple used to be kept in. He obviously doesn’t know I’ve had it removed.

"What happened?" I ask him gently.

"I found the way to the knowledge." he says tonelessly.

"Well?"

"I wasn't welcome there." Leonardo lowers his eyes.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“...Shameful.” he says after a pause: “I don’t even remember any of it but two men are in the infirmary because of me.”

I suppress a smile at the memory of it and pull the sketch of the woman from under the map. Put it in front of him.

I am often met with fear. Some hide it well but identifying it always gives me an edge, a weapon to use. Leonardo doesn't try to hide it. Hands become fists and his eyes become almost black as his pupils dilate. He quickly turns the simple sketch face down.

"She knows me!" he states. 

"How do you mean?"

"I cannot go back before I have a chance to sort out my knowledge. If I touch the Apple unprepared, she will find me."

"Leonardo..." I begin.

"I'm sorry. I cannot continue." he interrupts: "It's a breach of the contract, I know. But if I don't leave it-"

"Leonardo!" I hold up a hand to stop him: "I'm not asking you to."

For a long time I have wanted to see him afraid, but I don't really like it now that I do. I throw the bizarre map to the floor. I have spent some time going through all the notes he has made. Hundreds and hundreds of sheets. I have picked out some of the more interesting things and I push the papers across the table for him to see: "Build me this instead." I tell him.

He slowly reaches out and looks through the sketches in front of him, studies them. Then he looks at me, either calculating or puzzled. I'm not certain.

"That is not what was stated in the contract." he says. "I thought-"

"Do you really believe I want you to get hurt?" I demand sharply. "These are war machines, are they not?" I gesture at the drawings and Leonardo nods silently.

"Then build them. I have already fed your contract to my dog to rob you of the opportunity. And written up a new one for you to agree to."

Leonardo studies me, almost as though he only just noticed me. He is obviously perplexed. "What about the Apple?" he asks.

"It's mine. I'll keep it. Because others want it. And I won't let it fall into the hands of the violence- mongering assassins. But it's a hollow, hollow thing." I get up and stand beside him, put the new contract on the table. Watch as he unfolds the paper and reads.

He finally looks up: “This gives me complete freedom... To travel. Choose my assignments. Recruit help.” he says, as though he cannot believe the idea.

“There are plenty of things that could stand an improvement.” I explain: “The tyrants who held my lands before didn’t leave them in the best shape. And war takes its toll.”

“And the Apple?” he asks.

“Assuming you have been honest with me, there is no other practical purpose to the Apple but control. Correct?”

“I think perhaps there is. But not one that is useful. Or meant for either of us."

I lean close to him, my hands on the armrests of the chair he sits in. He is calm as I study him, until a smile breaks through on his lips: “What lies do you hope to find?” he asks me.

“None.”

I know him capable of deception. Last time he worked for me he gave me false drawings so that the project could not be completed without him. It’s an interesting spice to him.

I have hidden the Apple for now and I'm considering making arrangements for it to be sent off to Roma. The Pope would think himself secure having the useless thing in his keeping and believe me more trustworthy in the process. As long as it remains on Templar hands I have no further interest in it.

There are so many nuances of blue in his eyes.

My possible misgivings about his loyalty are useless now. If he was going to betray me he would have done so already.

“I leave tomorrow. I have some final preparations to make.” I straighten up, walk towards the door. It’s odd knowing that when I leave this study, it will be the last time I see it.

“Wait!” he quickly goes to stand between the door and me: “I came here dreading that I would have to shout at you to make you understand.”

“Disappointed?” I ask.

“Grateful.” He stands there, just looking at me.

I put a hand on his neck. Pull him closer. Embrace him. It shouldn’t be of any use to me, this gesture, but having his lips almost touch my neck and his body close is both a quiet delight and a moment of solace.

“Tonight.” I promise him softly.

 

 

**April**

“I’m not happy about you being here anymore.” I tell her.

"And why is that!" she demands.

“Because the fighting will soon begin. It isn’t safe for a woman. And you are not useful to me here. Especially not in your condition.” I look her over. The pregnancy is hardly showing yet. She is as curvaceous as ever, though with a very slight rounding of her belly and breasts.  There is a kind of glow to her.

"You do not command me." she states.

I draw the knife. The blade is triangular. It causes more damage that way. Wounds that cannot heal. Lucrezia pretends to be unaffected, but there is an instant guardedness to her stance.

“Just because the screams of the dying makes you wet, it does not give you the right to follow me into battle.” I tell her: “You should be doing your duty with the Pope in Roma. Quickly too, before you have to retire to the monastery to wait for the baby.”

“You didn’t mind me being there at Monteriggioni.” Lucrezia states. Her pink, little mouth smiles at me. But only for a moment.  When I grab her and start cutting the golden strings of her bodice, she hisses like a cat and tries to move away. I seize a handful of the silken under-gown exposed, preventing her escape.

“Monteriggioni was a family matter. It was different.” I slit open her gown to reveal her pearly skin.

"What are you doing!" she shrieks. "This dress is new!"

I laugh at her outburst; throw the knife to the floor and catch her as she furiously tries to push past me. I hold her while she squirms, her fists beating my shoulders; watch as her round little tits are exposed by the motions of her body pressed close to mine.

"You are impossible!" she finally shouts.

"Shhh." I hold her close. "I'm certain the Pope will soon find you a new husband who will be happy to give you a new pretty dress."

Her anger recedes and is suddenly turned into an involuntary giggle. She is receptive to the kiss that follows: "And what happens when he does?" she asks and nestles close.

"I'll kill him too." I whisper in her ear.

“Brother!”

“Little sister?” I tighten my grip around the back of her neck and let my other hand explore her skin: “Loosen you hair.” I tell her.

“Why?” Lucrezia whispers. She always asks why when she wants me to tell her how beautiful she is. 

“Because I want it.” I smile at her. “And since you are here against my will, you should make sure to keep me happy.”

I’m not really in the mood for telling her of her beauty. She can see it for herself in any of the myriad mirrors she travels with. I know I will have to reassure her but I need her to understand that her place is in Roma, making certain the Pope makes the right decisions. How I wish she would just shut up and spread her legs.

She angrily tears her hairpins out and releases the cascade of golden curls: “I have a horrible brother!” she tells me fiercely while I kiss her neck and caress her pink nipples.

“You must be referring to Jofré.” I laugh.

“Why are you being so cruel to me?” she pleads, her arms are around my neck and her lips press against mine. There is a glimmer of real worry in her eyes: “Don’t you lov-“

I cut her question off with a finger to her lips: “Baby sister, don’t ever think that. You are perfection. There is no one in existence who can match you. I love you. But how do I know you love me if you won’t help me?”

“I will help you. Of course I will.” She kisses me testingly: “I have given you a son and I will give you another. I love you. You know that.”

“And that is exactly why it is so important that you go to Roma.” I kiss her softly: “You are the only one I can trust, Araña.”

“It’s been ages since you’ve called me that.” Lucrezia coos sweetly and her lips are hot against my neck as I disentangle her from her clothing, caress her belly. She will go to Roma. She will do as I tell her. But right now, I’ll settle for letting prove her love with pleasure.

Family can be so complicated...

 

 

**May**

I took a few thousand men and began the march southwards. An enemy detachment met us on the way.

My scouts tell me they are about three thousand infantry and little artillery. They are moving up to reinforce their northern position. The last few days we have been manoeuvring around each other, trying to find the most advantageous place to fight. I will not let them by and they know it. The bloodshed has finally become inevitable and I have chosen to set up with my back to a stretch of forest. Micheletto has laughingly informed me that we are not far from a small village named Auditore. When the skirmish has played out, I will sack it on principle.

I sent a messenger to let the enemy know that I intend to fight them today but that I will not attack before they have made ready. It’s past noon and the delay will buy the heavens enough time to work in my favour. They may have superior numbers but I have terrain.

The signal to attack has been given and the late afternoon sun hangs low in the sky behind us, blinding the enemy. I stand up in the stirrups to get a better view of the fighting. The runners who report my orders to the commanders in the fray are streaming back and forth. I have ordered a group to flank the enemy artillery position and capture it.

Screams of the wounded, the deep rumble of war drums and the shrill of pipes, shouts of the fighters, weapons on weapons, the earth-shaking roar of artillery fire. The air I breathe is filled with the acrid, sulphurous stench of gunpowder and I feel the hollow pulse of the carnage in my entire being. It vitalises and quickens me beyond anything else!

My attention is on the fight against the pikemen in the middle of the enemy formation. I need to reinforce with infantry there to break through their line and get my cavalry out of their reach. If I can shatter their formation and divide them, it will be over quickly.

Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the runners come riding fast towards my position. It’s several seconds before I realise he is not stopping and a few seconds more before I take in the sight, the rider bent low towards the horse’s neck, the speed of the approach, the crossbow in his hand.

“Corella!” I shout as I spur my horse to try to break the line of fire. Micheletto does the same in an instant, tries to get in front of me. I suddenly feel myself pushed sideways in my saddle but I cling to the reins and manage to stay upright although the motion makes the horse take a dancing turn towards the attacker. Micheletto has reached him, his blade flashes in the sharp rays of the low-hanging sun.

“No!” I drive my horse forward and come to a stop where the would-be assassin has fallen. Micheletto is on the ground in a flash.

“I want him alive!” I yell and watch as all the guards, who should have been protecting me, flock around the screaming, fighting attacker to help Micheletto subdue him. I lean back in the saddle, feeling suddenly faint. Draw a deep breath to steady myself and a sharp pain shoots through my arm, numbing me.

“Cesare!”

I look down. Micheletto is near. He is bleeding from a cracked eyebrow.

“You are wounded.” he shouts over the sound of the thunderous cannons.

My hand is warm but when I try to move my arm to remove my glove, the pain makes me gasp for breath. When I turn my head painfully I can see the end of the small bolt sticking out of the cape covering my upper arm. Summoning my willpower I turn my eyes to the battle before me.

“We haven’t won yet. Put him in chains and get me a real runner!” I yell, furious at the delay, at losing precious seconds of the fighting. I still need to reinforce the main assault. My troops cannot see their advantage in the thick of combat and they need direction fast before I lose the opportunity.

The sun has sunk below the forest horizon behind me before the battle is won. I notice Micheletto watching me when finally all that is left is to put the last enemies out of their misery.

I still don’t know the severity of my wound. But I know the pain. The cold. I have lost a lot of blood. With my good hand I pull my helmet off and toss it to the ground; feel myself swaying in my saddle. Now that the battle is won and my attention has nowhere to go, every slight movement of the horse makes me feel nauseous. Getting down from the beast seems suddenly a near impossible challenge but Micheletto is there. Catches me. Steadies me as I put my foot on the ground. Assists me back to the tents at the edge of the forest.

“I want to know exactly how this breach of security happened...” I tell him faintly, strange points of light dancing in my field of vision.

“I’ll see to it.” he assures me and helps me into a chair. I release the clasp on my cloak to finally inspect the damage and the weight of the fabric on the bolt embedded in my flesh makes me gasp. Micheletto cuts the fabric quickly, throws the cloak to the ground. The crossbow bolt bit through both the metal of the shoulder- and armguard. The edge of the metal has bent into the wound.

I try to pull my glove off slowly but it’s stuck to my fingers with drying blood; snarling at the pain I pull it off. Stare at the red to focus on something as the physicians and attendants clip the fletched end of the bolt off so that they can remove my armour. Bark at them to do it fast and get it over with.

When the armguard is loosened the metal bites my flesh anew and blood pours forth in hot, dark splashes. They give me wine to drink before they remove the bolt. The soothing rush of fury at my own helplessness helps me through the agony.

 

I-O-I

 

When I awaken my world is hazy. I cannot feel my fingers and a sudden flood of dread hits me. I struggle to gain control of my body. Heave a sigh of relief when I’m finally sitting up in bed, seeing my arm still in place. Bandaged, bound in a splint, but there.

There is movement close by and I turn my head. Micheletto has apparently been nodding off in a chair close by. He comes to my side. His eye is almost closed by a bruise.

I lean back on the pillows and wait for the pain of the motion to recede.

“The less you move, the faster you’ll heal.” Micheletto says.

“How many dead?” I ask.

“About six hundred. A pittance in comparison to the two thousand they took with them.”

“The assassin?”

“I took the liberty of asking him some questions. I believe he was simply sent by the enemy taking a chance. I don’t think he’s one of the Brotherhood.”

“Is he alive?” I ask.

Micheletto nods.

“Send my physician to treat any wounds he has. Give him good food and quarter.” I close my eyes for a moment. Feeling the pain in scorching pulses throughout my body. Reminding me that I live.

“...As you wish.” Micheletto finally says after a long pause. He stands there by the bedside, frowning, when I open my eyes.

“I want him strong and healthy and rested to enjoy his very lengthy execution. I have to set an example.” I explain.

Micheletto heaves a sigh of relief: “Thank the Lord!” he says and makes the sign of the cross before his chest: “For a moment I thought you had suffered damage to the head.”

I give a short laugh: "Make it known he was of the Brotherhood, though. I can use this to incite the people against them. Post a generous reward for any information that leads to them." I tell him tiredly.

Micheletto nods, smiling, apparently reassured of my mental faculties: "As you wish." he says.

I remember I once asked myself if I felt affection towards Corella. If he was anything but a tool. Seeing him sit like a loyal watchdog at his Master’s bedside, though, I decide that at least for now I value his company above anyone else’s.

 

 

**June**

I am in a very dark mood.

I received news from my father's trusted servant. He told me that Sforza had been taken from the Castello by the Murderer; her present whereabouts unknown. That the Murderer had assaulted my baby sister.  That Lucrezia had since fallen ill with a terrible fever as a consequence. My father’s servant let me know that she was pregnant and had lost the child and that she was still struggling to live. 

I mourn the loss of a child nobody can know about. Fear for my sister's life. Struggle to deal with the lingering pain in my shoulder and the fury in my heart. The thought of that violent savage coming close to my sister... His hands on her. Hurting her. It maddens me! infuriates me! That the guards did not protect her. That I wasn’t there to stop him.

There is little other than rage in my mind. His filthy aggression against me will be punished! I have sent every available spy to Roma to try to smoke him out, my deal with Leonardo be damned!

The only bright point in my ocean of darkness was the execution of my would-be assassin. I let the hangman know I would hand him a solid silver chain if he managed to make it last longer than a half-hour. I was satisfied with the quality of his service.

Firenze is on the brink of war and I have done what I could to kindle the flames of discord. The faithful assets the Temple puts at my disposal have been tirelessly at work to ensure that the strife would not be resolved by any diplomacy. I still owe the Signoria of Firenze a debt of venom for betraying me over the treaty of Forno dei Campi.

Vitelli has been making trouble for Firenze after it dawned on his dull mind that I would not assist him in any of his dim-witted plans of vengeance. But the loss of his men is a small price to pay for having Firenze too panicked to send aid to any of my planned targets. When I read the report it lightened my spirit a little.

The majority of my troops have gathered at the city of Camerino and begun to besiege it. I am soon within striking distance with my own soldiers. I look forward to the bloodshed!

 

 

**July**

The girl finally left. All that’s left of her in my bed are a few bloodstains on the sheets. I’m not supremely satisfied by virgins. There is a certain fulfilment to being the first man to own something but I’d trade it for confident experience any day.

I open the window to let the night air cool my skin and stretch out on the empty bed.

I miss Leonardo.

My body is sated and relaxed but my mind is starved, discontented. I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine that he is lying next to me, curled up, his head resting in his hand. As though I could reach out and touch his warm skin.

I'm not certain what it is that I miss about him. Maybe just that I don't have to pretend when I'm with him. I don't have to manipulate him to do anything. To comfort him or appease him or be careful with him in any way. He is sure of himself as he is; knows his value. He sees me too clearly for me to be able to manoeuvre him anywhere he doesn't want to go.

And he appreciates silence.

My thoughts run over the happenings of the last few days. The city of Urbino has fallen to me. I wish the Duke of the city had fallen into my hands too, so that I could have had the traitor punished but Fortuna saw fit to let him escape.

I'm still furious at him. Despite the accord between us the Duke was arming men and making ready to send troops to Camerino to help them defend against me. He was also planning to undertake an assault on my artillery moving in to reinforce the siege.

When my spies reported that, I sent the Duke a letter, calling him brother and asking his gracious permission to move my army through his lands. Respectfully asking him to send me supplies for the march to Camerino. He felt himself secure that I knew nothing of his plans, and agreed. I took my men into his territory, quickly dividing them to strike at several places at once before he had time to launch a counterattack of any kind.

He fled like a coward.  And his lands are mine. I have sent the majority of my troops away. The city was captured with almost no bloodshed and I do not want soldiers pillaging my new, untarnished trophy. The Duke was a great collector of art and literature and his lands are rich and prosperous.

I received word that my sister was getting stronger. No longer at death's door. I sent her a letter with news of my progress and wishes for her good health. I sent along a gold necklace with emeralds and pearls that was recovered from the city's treasury. I hope it will make her smile.

I’ve made myself comfortable in the former Duke’s quarters. The palace is quite luxurious and despite myself I enjoy the little break from the fighting, taking the time to attend to the immediate affairs of the city before I have to leave again.

The niece of the Duke's adopted heir was visiting when I took the city. A young girl of sixteen. She was apparently prevented from escaping when my troops closed in and somehow believed herself a prisoner. When I finally had time to see her, she called me traitor, a cultureless brute. The Borgia Beast.

I wasn't completely unamused by the last title. It still makes me laugh.

I told her the truth of what her family member had tried to do in spite of the treaty between us. She refused to believe me, of course. And told me of the rumours of my cruelty. That I had murdered several families for sport at the plaza of San Pietro. That I never went hunting except for human prey. It made me laugh.

I asked her to tell me about her reliable sources. Naturally she couldn't answer. I wonder where these bizarre stories come from. Probably spread by the assassins, or our other enemies, to turn people against the Borgia.

I invited the girl to the festivity to celebrate Urbino's new ruler, and promised to send her back to her father in style as soon as I could spare enough guards to escort her safely.

I never expected her to show up at the celebration, but she did, holding her head high. She knew the wealthy and influential families in the city, the artists, writers and scientists visiting, and softened when asked to introduce them to me.

Leonardo would have enjoyed it. The former Duke had a gift for bringing skilled people to his court and although most were wary of me at first, it became an interesting evening after they began to realise that the wine was not poisoned. I will keep those that are not engaged in painting the former Duke's portrait, or writing his history, in my pay.

I was tired when I finally left the celebration in the early hours. As I made ready to go to bed there was a knock at my door. The girl had waited for her servant-woman to fall asleep and quietly gone to my room. She undressed herself while I protested that she should go back. I never expected it. I had looked at her of course. But other than that I had given her nothing.

Since she wished me to see her as a woman, however, I could find no reason to deny myself an extra treat. When I was done with her, she cried a little and I comforted her with gentle touches, waiting for her young emotions to calm. Then she started asking questions, talking, conversing, expecting replies.

I played along until it became too tiresome and then I told her to go back to her bed. That I had command of an army and therefore didn't have to worry about my tarnished reputation, but that her future might be less bright if gossipy servants didn't find her in her bed that morning.

The chattering little goose was moved by that. But by the time she understood that it was for her own good, my hands on her had stoked my fire anew. She opened her thighs for me willingly and received me with little gasps of pain or pleasure. I wasn't sure which and I didn't care.

The girl finally left and I cannot believe how much I miss Leonardo.


	7. August - September

**August**

Camerino has fallen. My territory slowly takes shape of a kingdom. Resistance to Borgia rule is crushed little by little, as petty, tyrannical princes are removed.

It seems that as ambitions are sated, new ones inevitably emerge. Or perhaps those ambitions were always there, lurking, waiting for a chance to crystallise into being.

September approaches on shadowy wings.

Since the Murderer placed himself firmly back on the game board by attacking my sister and setting Sforza free, I have had to anticipate that Leonardo would take some sort of action. I have sent my most trusted informants to stay vigilant about Leonardo and report his movements to me.

But he has remained faithful. Perhaps he has not heard. I cannot know. But my need to see him has become something akin to pain. September is almost here. I have to see him to gauge if I might be able to change his mind about leaving.

I was told of his travelling itinerary. He has been improving my lands in a variety of ways with great energy, and confidently been hiring workers and other engineers to implement the changes he has decided on. I like that. Not just the improvements, both civic and military, but the thought of him commanding people. In my mind it makes him closer to an equal.

I do not know what I will do if I cannot keep him.

I could easily force him to stay. Rob him of his freedom. But then the question remains if he would not simply become a problem, begin to resist me actively as I have feared he might while he has been with me. I cannot judge if he would resist or accept his fate. He has stayed with me, loyal for almost a year, although he was brought to me against his will. But I remind myself that he also originally did all that his ethics would allow to get away from those he perceived as his captors.

There is of course the Apple. The thought haunts me. Lures me. It offered its services readily when last I held it. Perhaps if Leonardo decides to leave, I could use the terrible sphere to make him stay. Though what would he be worth to me if he was forced so completely; if his wilful questions and challenges were extinguished...

I cannot find a solution by thought alone. I must wait until I see him. Until I feel him. When the time comes and I can look into his eyes, I will know what to do.

 

 

**September**

The Apple sits in a cupboard in the main house of the vineyard, unobtrusive, waiting for me. No matter what happens I will send it to Roma in a few days, when Leonardo's employment ends. Regardless of whether I use it or not. I'm sick of it.

Leonardo is on his way here. I've sent for him. I sit in the small garden at the back of the house, enjoying a glass of cool wine in the warmth of the afternoon, my feet up. The sun’s rays intercepted by the creeping wines above and the fragrant lemon trees around me. I have so little time like this. To myself. Choosing my own tasks. I've always been someone else's tool. My father's. The Church's. No, always my father's; though this time I fully intend to make him regret it.

These few days before Leonardo's contract ends will be mine. Even if they mean that I will not see him again afterwards or I choose to make him stay. No matter what, I will have this time.

The travelling party approaching at the other side of the house is loud; horses, wagons, followers. There is a moment of quiet. Then they seem to depart and he knocks, stepping in, spotting me through the open door at the other end of the cosy living room. He slowly closes the door behind him, lets his bag fall on the table and comes to greet me.

He looks fresh, energetic. I've kept a mental picture of him as he looked just after his last session with the Apple, frail and bloodstained. As he emerges into the sunlight, leaning on the doorframe, I notice the summer freckles on his tanned skin, the light in his eyes.

He stands still for a long while, looking at me almost-smilingly. I get to my feet and stand before him.

"I understand there are no servants. That this is private, Your Grace?" he says.

I nod.

"Then... Why aren't we naked?" he asks, puzzled.

I laugh and he grabs my belt, pulls me close as I put my arms around him, my hands exploring, out lips pressed together.

I was not aware undressing could happen this quickly.

Before I know it, I’m naked in a chair in the warm living room, lost in the rapture of having Leonardo on his knees before me, his tongue-tip so hot it’s close to a delightful pain.

It's almost like combat when he is in the chair with me, straddling me, riding me. Wilder and wilder. His fingers digging into my shoulders. I have to force his hands away; I can still feel the wound below the scar. It's a battle to have him as close as possible, not to let go. Touch, hold, sate, be sated. Hungry kisses. I lose myself with him.

When we are done I draw him close. He kisses my neck languidly and his still quick breath warms my skin. For the first time, the silence between us is a curse, although I'm not certain what I should tell him.  

He slowly begins to caress me, his fingers gingerly brushing the fresh scar, and I can feel his grin to my neck. Looking over his shoulder I spy the trail of discarded clothes. When our eyes meet we both start laughing.

He withdraws from me slowly.

"We should probably get cleaned up."  he says and kisses me smilingly. "Whose house are we defiling?"

"Mine." I tell him. It's a strange question.

"Why here? The city is just a few hours away." he finally asks.

"I want you to myself before you leave." I say. "No distractions."

He looks at me for a while and I can't really read his expression; if it's caution or sadness or something else. Then he kisses me gently, chasing the expression from his features.

 

I-O-I

 

I look at him as he sits in the afternoon shade, the pen travelling over the paper confidently and precisely. The book I hold in my hands is merely a pretence to keep up the silence. I watch as the view from the garden is captured in ink, the waves of landscape, the sweep of trees in the distance, the fields of grape-stalks almost ready to be harvested. He looks so serene as he works.

Leonardo suddenly lifts his gaze from his drawing as though he feels my eyes on him.

"What is it, Your Grace?" he asks softly.

I put my book down. "Why did you send me that map?"

He frowns, puzzled, and deposits his pen in the inkwell. "Map? The Imola-map?"

I nod: "You must have known I would hire you, back then. That I would not let an opportunity like you slip."

He gives a tiny, self-satisfied smile: "I was hoping for a job."

"But why? Why me? Employment with me must be just about the most complicated thing you could ask for. You must have realised-"

"That you would have to consider me a spy or a turncoat?" he interrupts.

"Yes." I watch as he pushes the papers aside, slowly reach for his wineglass and start turning it between his fingers.

"You are stalling! Tell me!" I demand.

He laughs and finally meets my eyes: "Back in '99 I was living in Milano. I had a life there. Workshop. Apprentices. Friends. And then you and the French besieged the city." He shakes his head. "When the city fell..." he pauses, looking for the words: "For a time I had been working on a magnificent project. The largest bronze statue ever cast. I had finally figured out how to do it. Everything was ready and then my bronze was confiscated to make cannons, of all things! And when your troops poured into the city they shot the clay model to pieces for fun and I had to flee through the carnage and slaughter, leaving behind a burning workshop and having only with me what I could carry!"

There is anger in him now, carefully kept in check, but burning under the surface.

"I lost so much!" he continues. "I lost my books, my work, my machinery. The portrait of the Marchesa d'Este and she is still pestering me to this day about when it will be done! It was almost finished and I can't bear to redo the work!" His voice is loud with anger and he draws a deep breath.

"...Apologies, Your Grace." Leonardo finally says, quietly: "To answer your question, I couldn't possibly get restitution for my losses, but at least I could make certain you repaid me with a decent wage; assassins be damned!"

I stare at him. "You took the job for vengeance? Spite? Against me?"

"I wouldn't put it like that..."

"How would you put it, painter?"

"Compensation." he states evenly.

I stare at him, trying to figure out if he is lying. If this is a convenient facade covering something. If I have simply been a piece on his game board this last year? I cannot see any sign in his demeanour that would lead me to believe he is untruthful. But if ever he decided to lie to me, I have doubts if I could see through it.

“...So no. No assassins bade me do it to spy on you. I don’t take orders from them; or anyone else.” Leonardo finally says, his voice soft.

“Why did you start this? This; between us.” I find myself asking. “Why? Was this part of your compensation? Is that all?”

There is a look of surprise in his eyes: “No! Please don’t think that. I started it...” he shakes his head and looks down, as though he is searching for the answer: “I did it simply because I couldn’t help myself. You are so intriguing. So different from me. ...And kind on the eyes." He grins at me: "And it made a complicated situation about a thousand times more difficult.”

“So you regret it?” I demand, dreading the answer.

He looks up, his azure gaze intense: “Not in the least!” he states. “Though perhaps I should? It would make tomorrow easier if I- if we considered it a mistake.”

I dismiss the notion by shaking my head: “Have you been compensated for your Milano loss, then?” I ask. “I wouldn’t mind extending your contract if you are not yet satisfied.”

He smiles and goes to sit next to me. Leans towards me so that his face is close to mine, studies me attentively.

“Will you let me go tomorrow?” he finally asks.

“In less than a day, your contract expires. And since you don’t take orders from anyone, I have no choice but to let you go.” I say.

He regards me for a while, then lowers his eyes and draws back in his seat: “I am tired, Your Grace. I don’t want to be a part of this conflict anymore. Not on any side of it. I can’t help fear what harm I can bring to innocents, to people who have no idea this war even exists, if I continue. I was never made for adventure.”

I reach out and let my fingers travel down his neck. He closes his eyes under my touch and I draw him closer for a kiss.

I have still not decided what to do with him.

 

I-O-I

 

I do not wish to sleep.

The passion between us was slow and soft and gentle; the fact that it would be the last time we satisfied each other’s bodies casting a long shadow over my mind. We shared the silence afterwards, looking at each other in the half light until Leonardo fell asleep, his arms around me. I lie there, holding him, my fingers caressing his face as he slumbers.

There is a dark space in my mind. A gap opening itself up like a wound and I cannot believe my body lies still and my breathing is quiet when waves of pain are crashing through my being in chaotic uproar.

I will lose so much when the sun creeps over the horizon. Though I’m not even certain what it is I will lose exactly. What it is he does that I don’t want to exist without? It’s not about intimacy. That is easily had with others. Maybe it’s the silence. I could easily order another to be quiet. But I couldn’t order anyone to be calm. To dare speak against me. To be obnoxiously defiant of their own volition. To see through my veneer of politics and desires.

I cannot let him leave.

The decision forms itself so easily.

No matter the cost he cannot be allowed to leave tomorrow.

I very slowly disentangle myself from his sleeping embrace. Sit next to him for a while, caressing him softly, listening to his faint sleeping breath. Then I pull my pants on and creep soundlessly down the stairs to the cupboard where the Apple is hidden. When it touches my fingers a warm explosion of beckoning calls me never to let it out of my sight. The familiar current of promises courses through my mind and stills a bit of the turmoil in my being.

I focus. The Apple gently directs me through its layers of possibilities as I slip back to the bedchamber. Leonardo hasn’t moved, still lost in sleep. The Apple urges me reach out and I feel how his mind is calm, welcoming. I need only plant a single thought, a desire. Stay with me.

I feel him. It is a strangely awe-inspiring feeling to walk another man’s psyche, to feel a mind from inside like you feel yourself. I’m staggered by the sensations presented to me as I look at his sleeping form, bathed in the warm glow from the sphere, and feel the liveliness of his mind. There is a feeling of potential to everything; whatever he looks at is to him a promise of new possibilities. But there is also fear. A sinister pool of terror hidden carefully behind the playful and curious paths of his mind.

I wonder if he ever visited me like this. While I slept and he was working with the artefact. If he could resist giving himself over to its call and seeing a mind not his own. The thought scares me and the Apple instantly urges me to use it, to bind him, to force him, to enslave him, as though my fear has given it new vitality, a new voice. I angrily silence it, overpower its annoying prodding. I will not have the tool dictate my actions!

But regardless, I must make Leonardo stay. Stay with me!

The tool. It’s not a fine knife. It’s a cannon; bringing nothing but destruction.

Suddenly, like a violent blow, my mind is my own again, closed and alone, though reeling from the strange force. The sensation quickly dissipates and I am left calm and oddly passionless.

I stand still for a long while, just taking in his features, his quiet breathing, the childish peace of his sleep.

Then I walk downstairs and put the cursed artefact away before going back to bed. I lie on my back next to him and stare at the ceiling above, empty and hollow, until morning.


	8. Epilogue

I’ve been pacing through the shadows of the graveyard since the sun crept below the horizon, trying to make up my mind. I arrived unseen and alone, though Corella will be waiting for me down the road. It’s quiet here. I want the night to shield me for this task. I consider turning back once more, but I need some form of... clarity, and I cannot reach that alone.

I finally still some of the turmoil in my mind and go to the small house behind the church, pound on the door. After a while I hear shuffling footsteps and a flickering light appears in the window.

“Who is it?” comes a shaky voice from inside.

“Your better! Open up!”

The door opens a fraction and the old priest stares out, holding a candle high. I push the door open and step inside: “I am Cesare Borgia and I wish to confess.” I tell him. The priest looks at me in surprise and horror for a moment, taking in my appearance, the Borgia bull embroidered on my cloak, before bowing low before me.

“Your Grace... I... What an unexpected...” He looks up at me: “...Honour? You wish to... confess?”

“Yes. You will hear my confession. You are a priest, are you not!” I snap.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” He bows again. “I will don my vestments and open the church immediately.”

I take the purple stole hanging from my belt and toss it at his feet. “This was mine when I was a cardinal. It will suffice. And I won’t sit in a freezing church. I assume you have alcohol in the house?”

He slowly stoops and picks up the gold-embroidered silk, keeping his eyes on me warily. “Alcohol? Yes, I have some amaretto in the kitchen? But, my son-“

“It’s not for me. It’s for you. You’re going to need it.”

He stares at me for a while as if the situation hasn’t dawned on him yet.

“Well?” I ask.

“Forgive me, My Lord. Please. Follow me.” he says and leads me to the small kitchen, lights candles there, stokes the fire.

I take in the humble surroundings as the priest scuttles about, then I throw my cloak down and have a seat at the table.

The old priest turns to look at me when fresh firewood has been put on the hearth.

“Well, Father? Bless me, I have sinned, and don’t forget the drink.” I tell him, leaning back in the chair.

He looks at me as he lifts the end of the stole to kiss it before draping it around his neck.

“My Lord, I cannot sit here and drink while performing a holy sacrame-“

“I murdered one of my brothers. Slit his throat and enjoyed the heat of his blood on my face. I fornicated with my other brother’s wife. And my sister. I strongly suspect I will have to put the Pope to the blade one of these days. And I haven't even told you about Leonardo, Father.” I tell him.

The colour seems to drain from the man: “I see what you mean, my child.” he whispers and fetches a generous jug of liquor.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” he asks shakily.

“A month; and I mostly lied. Now, let me tell you of Leonardo and the Apple.” I say as the priest settles down opposite me.

While I have been contemplating doing this, I have imagined it would be difficult. Imagined finding the words to describe everything that has happened would be close to impossible.

The stories seem to leap from my lips with ease, however, as if longing to be free. As I talk, the priest sits still as a rock, staring at me, but I quickly forget him. He is merely a catalyst for letting the words out.

I effortlessly describe everything that comes to mind of the Temple, of our aims, of the Apple and what is known about it. The assassins. Leonardo’s place on the fringe of both worlds.

How beautiful I found him. How intriguing. How good it was to touch his warm skin. Sate our lust and share our silence. I leave out no details.

A couple of hours have passed before I finally stop. Look at the priest’s stony expression.

The old man slowly pours himself a large drink and downs it unblinkingly.

“He left me that morning. We never said anything to each other. He simply picked up his things, touched his fingers to my lips and left.” I tell the priest after a while has passed in silence. “I let him go... I should have seen this move. Of course he would create a trap in the Apple. He must have made it so that if I used it on him it would backfire like artillery blowing up. I should have seen it. He was always such a devious bastard, even when he worked for me last time. He gave me false drawings so I couldn't throw him to the dogs without losing the work." I put my hands flat on the table as though somehow my anger could dissipate through them: "...I have even tried to send Corella out after him. To bring him back. But every time I come close to giving that order, something stops me. That damned painter! He did this to me.” I exclaim angrily: “He took my will from me! He changed my mind. Literally! Permanently! And I hate him for it...”

I sigh and calm myself. Look at the man opposite. He pours himself another drink and finally lifts his gaze. He looks as if he is about to speak, but holds his tongue.

“Father?” I say. “Speak your mind.”

“All this... It seems as though you are not so much confessing the sin of sodomy as that of loving another man. ...A bit too much.” he says slowly.

“Loving? Love?” I ask.

“Could that be the real confession you wish to make, my son?” he asks gently. “Are you certain the Apple was trapped and you did not choose to let him go?”

“If I did love him, why would I let him go?”

“Why would you let him go if you didn't? If you loved him, that would be for you to answer. But you must know that it is a heinous sin against God and the natural order.”

I nod: “What penance should I do? Do you absolve me?”

The old man seems momentarily lost, but then seems to gather his wits: “If you are truly penitent you must make a pilgrimage to Jerusa-“

I rise, leaning on the table: “Make it Roma!” I demand.

“Your sins are many an-“

“Make it Roma! I cannot leave everything I have build over the last years. I have to hold the power I have gained or all this would be for nothing!” I tell him.

“...A pilgrimage to the most holy city of Roma, of course, My Lord. Pray the rosary at every chance you get. Give thanks to the Lord for He is good.” the old man says.

“For His mercy endures forever.” I respond quietly. “Thank you, Father.” I pick up my cloak and wrap myself up for my journey back to the city. The old priest gets to his feet and shows me back to the door.

“I will be absolved of my sins once I reach Roma?” I ask.

“Yes.” he says, removing the stole from his neck and holding it out for me to take. I put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, drag him close and stab him, the long knife sliding up behind his sternum. He makes a broken gasp. I take the stole from his fingers and push him to the floor, wipe my knife in the silken cloth before sheathing it.

“I’m sorry, Father.” I tell him.

I watch him as he makes a few spasms, the blood stops pumping from the wound. I told him far too much. I couldn’t let him live with that knowledge. But now that I have told someone of my feelings of all that happened, the weight of it seems lighter. I’m grateful to the man who lies dead on the floor.

I can finally let my thoughts of Leonardo go.

Corella is waiting for me somewhere in the darkness.

The assassin has been seen in Roma. That’s where I should be.

 


End file.
